My typing has proved quite futile.
Everything has been said.
Every topic thoroughly covered.
I am merely a carbon copy—
A frail reiteration of something
That was once radiant and is now stale—
Like a repulsive piece of trash.
My experiences are not profound.
They are not insightful.
They will make no one ponder
As I have done before.
Writers have already delved deep
Into the core of mental anguish.
I am not able to express these things
The way they could.
My years amount to nothing but
A floppy, leaky journal—
An almanac of my ventures into worthlessness.