I woke up at an ungodly hour
In search of my papers past.
And while reading them, to my dismay
Came the harsh realization at last,
That all the words I ever wrote
Have all been written in vain.
For when I wrote, it was in desire
For money, for ***, and for fame.
Have I lied to myself all these years
That I wrote because I loved it so much?
Or was it my desire for the lifestyle of an artist
That I longed for and wanted to touch?
And now, I'm in tears for I'm overwhelmed
With an alarming weight of guilt.
For who is to blame except myself
For the pain of this hell I've built?
I no longer want what I know I want
But now I long for the things I hate.
It's somewhere deep down, but I cannot find
The desire to write and create.
I've tainted myself with false intentions.
I've branded myself with lies.
So take away my pens, all my papers--
I'm sick of living in disguise.