The Idiot

The idiot stares at the page

And reads his own death sentence

And signs his name proudly on the bottom

I guess I'm an idiot then.

Cause every word I write takes time,

The force that nothing is invulnerable to,

And that time is slowly wearing me down

I've gone hard, the crust of decades

Hardened like scales

An armor plate

That only masks the soft flesh

The heart

I write, but rarely act on it

I talk a big game

But I've never been good at sports

I stuck my neck on the line

And told them to drop the guillotine

Now I'm running around like a chicken without a head.

I'd be lying if I said I haven't thought about

What it'd be like to be dead

I think it would be really boring

Cause I don't think I'd make any new friends

And by the time my old friends get there,

They'll have moved on, its true

But I guess thats really nothing new

I was taught to think of others before myself

Well, now I only do things for others

And when I actually do something for me

I get burnt out, feel like a failure, 

And I write

And I run out of time.

This poem is about: 
Me

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