Identity Crisis

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.

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