Leftover lads

I always find myself between the scale of being in the crowd and being a loner.
Oh, but what is there to judge?
When you are but one of the leftover lads?
In the library is when it is clear,
That the crowd is the cooked
While we're the leftovers.
Cooked and soaked ,
They never combine
The hot stays warm while the cold stays still.
Then why even she, the lonely schnook
Still stand within the tables's group?
was she not also apart of the leftover's group?
I eyed her with my furrowed glance
How she carelessly flipped another page,
Of her careless book, her careless stance
Standing independent between the cycle
Then now i think to myself,
What if none matters at all?
Dispose the need, stand up, not please
Being the leftovers is not a great deal.