My poems seem like works of art.

  I never thought I'd be so smart.

  Keep reading them again and again,

  see my soul, see my pain.

  I lay there awake at night

  wondering when I changed.

  Darkness has switched on a light,

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  some wires rearranged.

  Someone else must've written these,

  I don't remember writing,

  whipping up rhymes with such ease

  and melodies, exciting.

  I know this seems so narcissistic,

  yet it feels not like my work.

  Keeping myself realistic,

  I still sound like a fucking jerk.

  I wonder, is this pride deserved?

  Are these feelings not reserved

  for something that's truly artistic,

  or is this me, just pessimistic?

  Tomorrow is another day,

  moving closer towards the light.

  Patiently I wait and stay,

  waiting for the day of bright.