Plagiarism is all I've made.
Tuneless, broken, searching, dismayed:
Words re-crafted, new every day.
Words reused, and still the same.
What is new? What is old?
Am I living a story that's already been told?
Is it made the same way?
With hope and fear
And all those thoughts
We thought were dear?
Well, they're not: they're old and worn.
Just like my heart: full and torn,
Empty and mended in a thousand old ways;
I wonder if all this is sustained
By one word.
Maybe one name?
I've heard this word
Yet, my heart stays the same.
This is not what I want.
I just want to claim