Maybe when I'm dead is when I'll be discovered
"Miss Walts of the technical age"
Someone will find my art and say "wow she really got it she really had it you know she was brilliant, a genius, truly great"
The best version of myself will then be shown
The romantized self analyzed by doctorates and lab coats
They'll all wonder what I really mean
And I'll be gone
Gone so they can't ask me
They'll mold me into a piece they really want
After death I'll return as a pawn
Crooning the voice of the people of our age
We all scream
"I'm not good enough
And because of this I cannot do a thing!
I can only make art from depressive relief.
Society is telling me everything to believe.
I can't think for myself for the life of me do not ask me a question because I never think!"
A self medicated self asbsorbed zombie
"No one has it worse than me."