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I assure you, I'm as novel as the last act- |
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A walking piece of crap |
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Plagiarism's abstract |
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For a lack of original work, |
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I'll sell myself short |
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And collect the riches for it. |
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When I run low on fictional tales, |
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On forced awkward rhymes, |
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On those standout lines, |
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It's hard to resort to the unentertaining, |
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To the blunt, the boring, |
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The truth-containing... |
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As possessor of the microphone |
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I demand your full attention. |
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Complexities, they need not be |
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When I'm able to say things simply. |
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Both repulsiveness in each strings vibration |
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And my sad excuse for poetry |
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Abolish self-accreditation |
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Of an artist with pride. I wish I could see |
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People singing back to me, |
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But my only fans, my only listeners, |
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Are the pixels on my computer screen. |
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Regardless of how much the copper makes me bleed, |
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I'll remain an anguished instrument of mediocrity. |
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It's always been a dream |
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To just get up and leave |
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And to return as a stranger. |
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The mysterious is to the curious |
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As methamphetamines |
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Are to the user. |
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This is the product |
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Of nocturnal intoxication. |
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Should I reiterate the words sung out by a million other artists before |
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They kicked the chairs out from under their |
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Dangling |
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Feet? |
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There's only one |
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Definite attraction, |
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My primary |
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Distraction... |
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When time brings my final curtain, |
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There'll be no ears to listen in. |
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Resonance of repetition... |
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When will life begin? |
