So I have been hanging out down by the trains 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 live's one track, can't they see it's pointless?
But then, my knees give under me My head feels weak and suddenly it is clear to see It is 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's just a sketch in me And everything I made is trite and cheap and a waste Of paint, of tape, of time