My words are the vessel to my feelings and thoughts.
They're the next best thing, but not nearly good enough.
They're never good enough.
Nothing i do will ever be good enough.
Everything is overshadowed by what could've been, what i could've done, like a bungalow amidst a sea of skyscrapers.
I've strayed from my freshly paved path, drifting into irrelevance.
I'm wasting my talents, throwing them up over the railing of my window, painting my mansions golden walls in waste more decadent than any diamond or metal.
My words are all i have. And they won't ever be good enough.