I am not at all impressive
Usually, I am awkward
Unsteady hands, unsteady legs
Fidgeting in diaphanous frailty,
Smiling because it is acceptably human,
The mind is mostly devoid of funny, intelligent remarks.
My posture, a perfect example of my very apparent mediocrity,
My eyes today are fixed on my diary, probably the only thing I ever faced properly.
Here my blood runs freely,
The paper soaking the scarlet red of my disappointments, capillaries absorbing the pigments in a definite pattern.
Impressions, impressions, impressions,
I finally created an impression.