I’ve yet to understand true art
I’ve yet to see what others see in my poems
Those who have seen my work
Claim to see words of inspiration
But all I’ve seen is crap
Shit not worth recognization
Wasted emotions that probably mean nothing to most
A story with no meaning
I use to think of it as an escape
What a ill-advised idea
What was I escaping from?
Was I escaping from depression?
Well it still following me everywhere
Was I escaping from the pain of love?
Well that explains why I’m always alone
Was I escaping from life?
Well things haven’t really become perfect.
