Written in Grey

My mind is a dry bag of flour,
My brain is a half pound of lead.
I try this shit hour by hour,
Eventually I'll wind up dead.

Why is it so fucking easy
For people who aren't like me?
To focus, to write, it would please me,
But the most I can make is black tea.

I have all these grand aspirations
Tucked tight away inside my sleeve.
Unleashed, I know I could change nations,
So why do I wish I could leave?

My poetry's always depressing,
My talks circle back to despair.
But it's happiness that I'm repressing,
So I hold on and hope for repair.