Glory, Money and Applause

i am a fake.
i copy what's around me.
i take in what i hear and throw it up butchered into what i believe to be my own thoughts.
as i listen to a song, i take a line or an idea to twist into my own verse.
i am a sponge.

i want to believe i'm a creative force undiscovered in the literay world.
a diamond waiting to be cut and polished to shine;
then put out for display with a huge markup.
my value assessed.
my artistic prowess confirmed.
but i just reiterate what i myself am unable to create.

i want the glory.
i want the money.
i want the critical beatings and the audience applause.
yet i will never see anything but lawsuits, court rooms, and heads shaking in disappointment.

i made up every word.
true or not, i heard it in my thoughts.
i grabbed it and wrestled it onto paper.
i pat myself on the back for my accomplishment.
but then i read somewhere that what i have has already been done.

i'm in deep into my mental disorder.
i saw him go from poor me to hearts dancing in his eyes.
love sweet love offers me a rest from the daily frustrations of my own life.
but he tells me he's not real.
another figment of my imagination floats away.

i am a fake.
i will never be published, but i will be heard someday.
maybe all this will end up in the dumpster when i die.
after i'm gone there's no guarentee these words will live on.
i am a sponge.