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.
As I hide behind these books I read,
While scribbling my poetry .
Like art could save a wretch like me.
With 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.