Sketch Of Me

"But then, my knees give under me 
My head feels weak and suddenly 
It is clear to see 
That it is not them but me, 
Who has lost my self-identity
As I hide behind these books I read, 
While scribbling my poetry,
like art could save a wretch like me, 
With some ideal ideology
That no one can hope to achieve
And I am never real; 
It is just a sketch of me
And everything I made is trite 
And cheap
And a waste"