Timing Isn't Nothing.

In this place we call the world,
A person such as me is wasted;
My individuality...
Is not the usual dish of choice
Opon which the masses feed.
In fact, it's barely ever tasted,
And I'm perpetually dismayed
To find that only I am ever me.

So,
As butter brushed upon the toast of life,
I will melt away and be consumed,
Until I am no longer me:
My form no longer mine,
My thoughts no more my own,
My ideologies merely food—
Though not yet the sort for thought—
For, despite this hell we call the world,
I might have saved you from its ruin
But for the fact I came before my time -
While my needed change did not.