stripped

My head feels weak

and suddenly

it's clear to see

it's not them but me,

who has 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 am never real;

it is just a sketch in me.

And everything I made is trite

and cheap

and a waste

of paint,

of tape,

of time.

waste of paint

Bright Eyes