So now I hang out down by the train's depot/ No, I don’t ride, I just sit and watch the people there/ They remind me of wind-up cars in motion/ They way they spin and turn and jockey for positions/ And I wanna scream out that it all is nonsense/ Their life’s one track and can’t they see it’s pointless?/ But just then my knees give under me/ My head feels weak and suddenly It’s clear to see, it’s not them, but me/ Who’s lost my self-identity/ And 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 could hope to achieve/ And I'm never real, it's just a sketch of me And everything I’ve made is trite and cheap and a waste/ Of paint/ Of tape/ Of time.

Bright Eyes, Waste of Paint