Re-creating a painting I did.
But then my knees give under me, my head feels weak
and suddenly it is clear to see that it is not them but me, whose lost my self-identity.
As I hide behind these books I read, while scribbling my poetry
like art could save a wretch like me, with some ideal ideology that no one can hope to achieve.
And I am never real; it's just a sketch of me.