Everything

Nothing I do right now means anything to me
Or to anyone else, for that matter.
I'm not making art, I'm repeating the art of others on
Out-of-tune pianos while real musicians sit around me
Casually improvising jazz, as if it were child's play.
My days are numbered and I intend to count every single one of them.

Searching for a reason to avoid going home, I take back roads and scenic routes
Hoping it will bring me closer to the person I had meant to become
All those years ago when I first sped down them
On nights when coffee and nicotine were all I needed.
These days I find myself stagnated in traffic jam thoughts and I can't get myself thinking clearly
When the open window brings not the fresh air I had expected
But the smog of misery that hangs around this filthy city.
This isn't the right format for all the rage I have to give the world.
My days are numbered and I intend to make every single one of them count.

But I just don't see how I could manage it.
My hands are too small to carry all of these expectations
And too slow to carry three melodies at once
I set my sights higher than I can climb in the hopes I would rise to the challenge
But I just can't keep time when it's sextuplets against sixteenth notes
How am I supposed to amount to anything if I can't accomplish everything?