I can't stop living my life in other people's shoes
It brings me joy to see what they do

To see a painter's craft;
It's like ecstasy to peer into their head
And feel everything they've put onto a canvas

To hear a musician's melodies
Drag me into wonderment
How do they do that so well?

To read the words of a writer
Live in their world
Have my heart squeezed
And bleed colors I've never imagined

They're all me
I can fathom all of those feelings
I can, I can
The words
The hues
The emotions
The notes
The metaphors
All of those slivers of existence
I can experience them all
I want to
Live in their shoes

But they're not my **** shoes
And they don't fit; my feet are too small
And I know an artist's life is nothing to envy
And most of them didn't recognize their own talent
I don't recognize my own talent
Am I in their shoes now?
Or just talentless?

When I look down at my own feet
I don't see anything but stumps meant for walking
And when I walk to a mirror
I see a fool who keeps trying on other people's shoes
Asking if they fit
As if anyone else would ever know

I see a man who needs his own shoes