"But just then my knees give under me
My head feels weak and suddenly
It's clear to see it's not them but me
Who's lost my self-identity
And I hide behind these books I read
While scribbling my poetry
Like art could save a wretch like me
Some ideal ideology
That no one could hope to achieve
And I'm never real, it's just a sketch of me
And everything I've made is trite and cheap
And a waste
Of paint, of tape, of time"
"But just then my knees give under me My head feels weak and suddenly It's clear to see it's not them but me Who's lost my self-identity And I hide behind these books I read While scribbling my poetry Like art could save a wretch like me Some ideal ideology That no one could hope to achieve And I'm never real, it's just a sketch of me And everything I've made is trite and cheap And a waste Of paint, of tape, of time"
amazing.