2004-03-01 / 6:06 p.m.
Unfulfilled

What am I doing?

Self-indulgent claims of art

With barely anything to show

Promises of someday, maybe

When I have the time

Excuses for my insolence

And if never write that epic

Could I be happy with

The shallow emptiness inside

For what good is talent without

The tender sweet fruits it produces

Maybe I need to run for the hills

Break out of this life

And the words will flow like water

But I need the blood of a ritual

And I don't have a sacrifice to lay up

Or maybe I do

but it's not one

I want to make