Always The Uncreative Elbow

It's hard to lose myself.
I ridiculously plot out every little thing,
Weighing potential consequences and failures,
Subconsciously.

Creativity doesn't call to me.

I can tell myself that I have a brilliant idea,
Create it,
But it's not mine.
It's whatever I thought of,
Or saw,
That triggered it.
That owns it.
Not me.

That.

If only I could find a way for my mind to take risks,
But I'm too dependent.
On what,
I'm not sure.
Everything maybe.
The whole entirety of my world is a comforting shoulder.
Just to be clear,
However,
I'm never the shoulder.

Always the elbow.

There to bend to your whims all the while getting banged up and scoffed at along the way.
The life of an elbow is hard.
And surprisingly not very rewarding.
But I guess it's a comfortable existence.
You know,

The whole independently dependent part of it.

I wish I could leave a profound impact on someone.
It's kind of hard to,
Being an elbow and all.
Unless of course I shove myself onto people.
Then I would leave an impact,
Given a painful one,

But nonetheless an impact.

I'm not very good at being an elbow I just realized.
Considering I'd probably tense up,
And disable an arm from moving.
I really need to stop being so conceited and sarcastic.
Who's ever heard of a conceited sarcastic elbow?

Certainly not me.

Being that I'm the only non-bending,
Crampy,
Practically useless,
Elbow to have ever existed.

But being an elbow is a comfortable existence,
And creation never calls to me.