Bright Eyes - Waste Of Paint

So I have been hanging out down by the train's depot.
No, I don't ride, I just sit and watch the people there.
And they remind me of wind up cars in motion.
The way they spin and turn and jockey for positions.
And I want to scream out that it all is nonsense.
All your lives one track, can't you see it's pointless?
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's just a sketch of me.
And everything I make is trite
and cheap
and a waste
of paint,
of tape,
of time.