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