You’re really not as eloquent,
Artistic, Bright or skilled,
As the person that you see in you,
You’ll never be fulfilled.
You’ll keep lying as your soul is dying,
Day by wretched day,
But your lack of talent cannot keep
your grim self-doubt away.
You’ll latch on to other people,
‘cause you’re needing the supply,
And by the time you’re done with them,
Those folks will want to die.
But you’ll chew them up and spit them out,
And blame them for your actions.
Keep up your parasitic ways,
But gain no satisfaction.
Your writing’s mediocre,
And your musings make folk retch,
But the one thing you’re quite good at,
Is a tracing paper sketch.
So buckle up and do your best,
And lie and play the victim,
But honestly you’re a piece of shit,
So go fuck yourself.
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