I would like to sit and question my own existentialism
am i myself the limit of my own stars
could i in fact paint with these tired fingertips
if only i had the paint in my mind
would it change a fate to believe there is no such thing as failure
would my back not break under bricks so heavy
if i tell myself they are imaginary
maybe these endless trials will be left to more savory tastes
if i were to act like life were sweet
who could say if this mortal coil is only filled with endless toil
due to this singular inevitable screw up i have deigned to call life
so perhaps if i were to let my shadows fall to my feet
kiss lullabies and sleepless nights on the same cheek
I would find myself in simpler times
where i wouldn't fuck this up
because that was never even an option