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,

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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.