I'm conscious I am a rambling idiot
I sometimes see a glimpse of sense,
Patterns created by me
I like to say I'm artsy
I know the real reality
I'm just a depressed mess,
Picking up trash and calling it crafts
Thinking I may have finally gotten it right,
I awake and it never changes
Life is thickening up fast like a poor made dessert
I just stand here with my fork, in hopes it'll cool down
My tongue is destroyed,
It no longer can take the burn
So be warned don't serve me overcooked confections