waste of paint.

Lately I've been listening to "LIFTED, or the Story is in the Soil, Keep Your Ear to the Ground" quite a bit. I bought it quite some time ago, but since that I didn't really pay it much attention, besides a couple obvious tracks like "Bowl of Oranges" and whatnot.

So what this is getting to is, disturbing projections of my (and others, too) life, penned by someone I will never meet

"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 in me.
And everything I made is trite
and cheap
and a waste
of paint,
of tape,
of time."