I want to write songs,
But I can’t write music,
For some talent I long.
All my beats are acoustic,
Finger-rapping, feet tapping,
But it sounds all wrong,
So I just keep writing.

I type these words and wonder of an alternate me:
She writes her lyrics for the gifted and the wealthy,
She’s well-off, and doesn’t want for anything,
On the radio she hears her songs playing.

But I’m not her, I’m just me,
Just a poor writer, stereotypically.
A smoker and a drinker I’m a walking trope,
Desperately writing myself some hope.