Waste of Paint

I want to scream out that it all is nonsense. Your life is one track - can't you 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 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'm never real. It's just a sketch in me. And everything I made is trite and cheap and a waste.