Who am I, What do I think I am
Am I the writer I think I am
Or am I merely another poet with nothing to say
Am I lost, have I already been forgotten
Before I was discovered
Will These thoughts of maybe if
Ever be constructive misconstructed
Destructive making up words.
Shakespeare did it. Why can’t I?
Maybe I’m a baker in writer’s clothes
Maybe I’m a carpenter trying to invent the wheel
After its been invented
Maybe I’m a mechanic breaking cars
Just breaking hearts
Maybe it’s the start of something I can’t handle
If I could only hold down an idea I may be able to find out
Exactly who I am, but to contain the ideas
Bottle them up in little jars labelled all neatly
Would cover my scars.
The truth is I’m a liar
We’re all liars making up stories
To entertain people, maybe just drunken
Revelry writing markings on cave walls
Our history is written by liars
And maybe I just fit into that skin
Because I can’t complement my kin
With this writing abyss I’m in.
Am I masked with obscurity
Marked with curiosity of everything around me
I can safely say from a distance is more comfortable
Than in the mix mixing up shit just for the fuck of it
I sit at bars alone surrounded by people
And I like it that way. I like solidarity but I crave love
Romantic love has been lost and replaced with worry
Every day a struggle, for ten long years
The bills pile up and never ever go away
Great artists suffer through life, so they say
Maybe I don’t want to suffer, but I cause the suffering
And is it so wrong to want more from life than
Forever chasing the dream of money, cars houses.
All bullshit. All nonsense. All filler to fill my life
With shit I don’t need. All I need is a smile
Some god damned deserved happiness
Don’t we all deserve to be happy
Don’t we all deserve a little fucking happiness!
Maybe I should just join the army and fuck my fellow man to death.