i was never born to be a poet.

i was never born to be a poet, not to live as a subject either.

fake it till you make it but i feel sick when i lie.

i'm not genuine, i'm not what i tell people i am

i'm a fraud and i've always known it

and i also know i've gone too far to live otherwise.

i was never born to be a poet.

my hair is already thinning out and i'm not living as i should.

i've been called fat and skinny -- i have a sullen face and i should smile more

and i've learned not to listen anymore because who i am i to trust?

i want to believe everyone but they all seem to say things in different tongues.

i was never born to be a poet.

i lie when i romanticize anything because everything is bleak and there's not fruit being grown.

i grew up with two men that drank and huffed their way through their working days

and fill their minds and those around them with logic, the fear of death,

that the mundane circle of life is the best you can get and you can't change your path with art.

but i was asleep and it was all very similar, apart from that my mind won't leave me and it won't pity me.

it won't pity me because i have no pity for myself. i should, i want to, but this is what i've been taught.

and shame on those whose tongue lashes back on their father's true word

for he's right only because he raised me, though i am alone now.

i'm not a poet, i'm a faker and i think i lie pretty well.

it was the world that taught me how to lie anyway,

and the world loves to hear from me.

because i'm such a good faker, after all.