so i've been hanging out down by the trains depot. no, i don't ride, i just sit and watch the people there. and they remind me of wind up cars in motion. the way they spin and turn and jockey for position. and i want to scream out that it all is nonsense. all your life's one track, can't you see it's pointless?

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 can hope to achieve. and i'm never real, it's just a sketch of me.

and everything i make is trite

and cheap

and a waste
of paint
of tape
of time