My poems seem like works of art.


    I never thought I''d be so smart.


    Keep reading them again and again,


    see my soul, see my pain.


    I lay there awake at night


    wondering when I changed.


    Darkness has switched on a light,


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    some wires rearranged.


    Someone else must''ve written these,


    I don''t remember writing,


    whipping up rhymes with such ease


    and melodies, exciting.


    I know this seems so narcissistic,


    yet it feels not like my work.


    Keeping myself realistic,


    I still sound like a fucking jerk.


    I wonder, is this pride deserved?


    Are these feelings not reserved


    for something that''s truly artistic,


    or is this me, just pessimistic?


    Tomorrow is another day,


    moving closer towards the light.


    Patiently I wait and stay,


    waiting for the day of bright.