i sit alone with a pencil,

a piece of paper, and my arm

i consider stabbing one or the other

because it'd help me to do harm

but in the end, i never go through

for every time i choose

to use the pencil to form some words

instead of to form a bruise

so sometimes i'll write a story

and sometimes i'll write a song

but no matter what it is i write

it always goes on too long

i don't have any talent

so i don't have any right

to sit here with a pencil

every friendless, fruitless night

and yet i do it anyway

and i've known i always would

because writing is the only thing

at which i'm almost good

and that's why it is such a shame

that no one else can see

but if i'm a sheep, then i must hide

whatever makes me me

so nobody knows of what i do

alone and in my room

and nobody knows of all the ways

i've plotted my own doom

and every time i try to escape

from between this hard place and rock

i close my eyes and remember

a sheep is nothing without the flock.