I assure you, I'm as novel as the last act-na walking piece of crapnplagiarism's abstractnFor a lack of original work,nI'll sell myself shortnand collect the riches for it.nWhen I run low on fictional tales,non forced awkward rhymes,non those standout lines,nit's hard to resort to the unentertaining,nto the blunt, the boring,nthe truth-containing...nAs possessor of the microphonenI demand your full attention.nComplexities, they need not benwhen I'm able to say things simply.nBoth repulsiveness in each strings vibrationnand my sad excuse for poetrynabolish self-accreditationnof an artist with pride. I wish I could seenpeople singing back to me,nbut my only fans, my only listeners,nare the pixels on my computer screen.nRegardless of how much the copper makes me bleed,nI'll remain an anguished instrument of mediocrity.nnIt's always been a dreamnto just get up and leavenand to return as a stranger.nThe mysterious is to the curiousnas methamphetaminesnare to the user.nnThis is the productnof nocturnal intoxication.nShould I reiterate the words sung out by a million other artists beforenthey kicked the chairs out from under theirndanglingnfeet?nThere's only onendefinite attraction,nmy primaryndistraction...nWhen time brings my final curtain,nthere'll be no ears to listen in.nResonance of repetition...nWhen will life begin?