My callused fingers will be worn to the knuckle

Before I produce what outside people would call a ‘song’.

I live in a world of one.

The idea that another pair of eyes truly exists frightens me

Let alone another pair of ears.



Another pair of ears that hears the pathetic wobble of my voice

As I mutter through another verse

And attempt another mimicry at all those artists

That transcend myself in every aspect.

What can I expect?

Not once in my life have I surpassed an outside person.

Sometimes I catch myself in a car window;

A shop mirror,

And mistake myself for one of them,

Before I see the ripples of odious self-doubt

That pierce the pores of my skin,

Reminding me of my place

And so I retreat back into my cage without a lock.



I am the ghost the world forgot,

The more-than-welcome guest left in the corner by the dog.