People say I'm the problem. Most of the time I actually believe them..

Wallowing in my own self pity, I isolate myself from the others.

I feel like a spectator watching life happen all around me.

I have no effect. No impact. No anything.

People still laugh and smile when im gone. They weep, they rage, they feel pain. 

They feel hope and sorrow just the same without my looming presence.

So why am I here? People still go through their dull and boring lives without me.

My friends find companionship elsewhere. I am easily forgotten. Easily replaced.

I am a leaf. When it is just the time around when their colors change.

I might have been something beautiful to someone once, but my time has come.

My stem clings on the tree for its only life support, but the wind suggests otherwise.

I am plucked from the only place I have known and I slowly float to the ground

while I wither and die just like all the others when the breeze came along.

The tree is never affected. It moves along and grows old while I disintegrate into nothingness.

And when the time comes, I will be replaced by another leaf, one similar to me,

and the whole cycle will repeat itself. Over and over. So please tell me why I should feel special?

One simple leaf can't change a tree, nor a whole forest. Its only present to serve its purpose

and then die like all the others. And no one remembers. No one would remember me.

What have I done with my life except become a burden to the people who I was supposed to love?

I look in a large room with lively faces. Expressions filled with joy, sadness, guilt, anger, giddy, and glee.

And I hate every last one of them. Their countless emotions perplex me, while I simply cling to one: emptiness.

This is what I feel: empty. I am invisible to the world, but they are ever too present to me.

I don't hold myself superior that I am alone, but I can never join them and feel at home.

And I rather accept my life of solitude then try to comfort myself in the people who pity me.

They dont love me. How could they? What's to love? Most people would say their glass is half full.

Others would say that theirs is half empty. And mine? Dry as a bone.

Not even a vapor to fill the glass with substance. No one thirsts for an empty glass.

No one acknowledges a dead leaf. And no one would remember me.