my head feels weak and suddenly it is clear to see that 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 can hope to achieve. and i am never real; it is just a sketch of me. and everything i have is trite and cheap and a waste of paint, of tape, of time.