The Woes of Mediocrity

You might say that I could be happier;  
with wrists bleeding corn syrup dyed red.  
You might say I suck at what I do;  
guess I'd have to agree hole hearted.  
   
I wanted to go to school to earn my way,  
but it seems you can't learn how to be a genius.  
I wanted to be different from the stupid bitch stars  
but it seems I'm just another of their wannabes.  
   
If life coulda dealt me better cards,  
I'da found my niche by now.  
If life coulda slapped me in the face,  
maybe I'd care how boorish that sounds.  
   
I'mma fuck up  
I'mma fake ass  
I'mma 'nother fucking wannabe  
   
I'mma shit hole  
I'mma cunt  
I'mma tiny dick sucker with no talent  
   
Gotta damn problem with me and my cursing?  
Sorry bout offending you but I'm just pissed cuz I  
Gotta damn problem with everything about me.  
I'm not really cursing at you or your people.  
   
or your culture  
or your life  
or your faith  
or your ideas.  
   
NAH  
   
I'm cursing at my own mediocrity  
I'm cursing at the sad "dreams" I had.  
   
Like being a musician who knew what he was doing  
Like having some originality  
   
But now I know that my hopes are pointless,  
let me make a U-Turn at the next best thing.  
   
Why not be a Pop Star? I got the crazyness you need  
to be the next big damn thing.    
I don't hafta worry bout being "good" or "melodicaly correct"  
I don't hafta worry bout being an artist and breaking all those damn harmonic rules (in the right way of course),  
FUCK  
I'm already letting the structure of this poem fall apart- FUCK!    
It's not a poem It's a shit ass rap, and not even the good kind like the british make.  
This is fucking 8th grader in the lunch room trying to impress his buddies  
Except all my buddies are virtuosos who hear music in their head    
and write symphonies when the professor asks for four bars of melody.  
My friends in 10 years will look down on my shit and shake their heads at the kids who listen to it  
they'll refuse to call it music and mourn later's death.  
What they won't realize is that it's ME screaming my twisted heart out at that mic - fuck  
Who will after the liposuctions and layers of make-up it will take to even get me out in the "main stream"  
and charm 13 year old's into listening to my shit?  
Nobody want's to listen to some strange fag with a terrier mop and cleopatra eyes.  
That won't get them to click on my picture when they're surfing youtube for good song covers  
and it won't get them to wanna find out more, no.  
It's eating disorders, and wieght loss pills, and anabolic steroids for me  
to make what I really am a sad memory repressable by alchohol.  
   
I don't even know where I'm taking this anymore, so I should probably stop  
or at least find a topic to focus on,  
but where's the fun in that shit?  
Who gives a damn whether my shit is any good,  
cuz shit of any other title will sound just as bad.  
   
I'm sick of being "good" or "well done."  
I'm sick fo all this "fix the grammer" or "try it in something that's more interesting than 4/4."  
I just can't do that for all the fucks in me I give,  
which you won't find in my "empty bucket of fucks," hell,    
I keep those to myself like the self centered bastard I am.  
I may want to please you, but it's so you'll give me your money.  
I don't give a damn about what people think of my shit,    
it's what I think that counts - and I hate myself enough for a lifetime of people.  
   
the end motherfucker.
 
*NOTE: I know that the grammar is atrocious; it's meant to be that way.  
The spelling mistakes are intentional too.  
This is a very ugly piece of my soul, and I wanted to display it as such: ugly, riddled with mistakes, and messy.