The art I make is bad
But I make it still the same, and this alone is okay
At least I know it, right?
It is self awareness that makes this okay outwardly
At least I know that I cannot express myself, after all
At least I am grounded in reality
Of course I envy those good poets, who know just what to say
About all of their own
Terrible, shitty emotions
In beautiful, organized notes and rhymes
Granted, maybe I just do not know myself well enough yet
But maybe I just do not exist in the way I hope I do
Maybe inside me there is a person with nothing to say at all
But I would know that, right?
The only thing I have going for myself
Is the prospect of working to know myself
And all of my flaws
Yet it seems the closer I look, the less I see
So maybe I should quit while I\'m ahead
And sing my odes to shitty poetry, because, it seems
No matter how much I try to know what is in the mirror
Or make pretty words rhyme
I can never change the fact
That behind every stroke of the brush
Is a small, naked man who cannot say the things that he feels
Or even succeed at faking it