So now I hang out down by the train's depot
No, I don’t ride, I just sit and watch the people there
They remind me of wind-up cars in motion
They way they spin and turn and jockey for positions
And I wanna scream out that it all is nonsense
Their life’s one track and 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’s lost my self-identity
And 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'm never real, it's just a sketch of me
And everything I’ve made is trite and cheap and a waste
Of paint
Of tape
Of time