June
Monday 12 May 2008 photo 1/1
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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 make is trite and cheap
And a waste of paint, of tape, of time
Annons
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