I cannot exist and examine growth.
One eats the other and I cant digest both.
No room in my stomach, even less in the head
I’m meant to extract words-put them on paper with lead.
I can’t say you haven’t heard them before,
So perhaps you will find that my mind is a bore.
You say you’re all beautiful with capacity churning,
I have small attempts; still feel like I’m learning.
Perhaps your art’s better, profound and perfect
Mine is just me, imperfect-no regret.
It’s all meant for fun, no need to judge or compare…
There are no classics here, of this I’m aware.
But stop by and look, like when a car overturns
While I display all of my paper-thin thought patterns.
And all of you critics can go sit alone …
You’re no better than me for what you’ve shown.
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