This isn't me.
Why, oh, why
Do I feel the need to follow the line in the sand
Of footprints left by a greater man?
They aren't me, but when I look back, it's what I see.
Suddenly, I find myself quoting
obscure lyrics to an unknown harmony!
And yet this is me.
I am skilled with words,
I can construct a "trope" with the greatest of ease,
And the trite little rhymes burst forth naturally.
Yet, when the dust clears, and my memory clouds,
I am Lewis, Dickinson, Hughes and Marquez.
Frustration sets in when I see what I've become.
How do we escape the shadow of those who we love?
Do you abandon it all, and say "Fuck it, I'm done!"
Or do you write and write, until you overcome.
And does it matter, when it's over and done?
Will you still look back and think "I've really done nothing
But at least it was fun"?