Brilliant

So I've been hanging out down by the train's depot.
No, I don't ride.I just sit and watch the people there.
And they remind me of wind up cars in motion.
The way they spin and turn and jockey for positions.
And I want to scream out that it all is nonsense.
All your life's one track, can't they see it's pointless?
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 has 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 am never real;
it is just a sketch in me.
And everything I made is trite and cheap
and a waste of paint, of tape,
of time.

The last few months I have been living with this couple.
Yeah, you know, the kind who buy everything in doubles.
They fit together, like a puzzle.
And I love their love and I am thankful
that someone actually receives the prize
that was promisedby all those fairy tales that drugged us.
And they still do me.
I'm sick, lonely,
no laurel tree, just green envy.
Will my number come up eventually?
Like Love's some kind of lottery,
where you scratch and seewhat's underneath.
It's "Sorry",
just one cherry,
or "Play Again.
"Get lucky."

-Bright eyes (Waste Of Paint)