Truth

Because I could not write the truth
Pure originality
I tried to find another way
To express the inner me

But no, these words, these now clichés
Are wrong in others eyes
These notes I write and lines I play
The same as some before

All subjects dead, all feelings said
Unique becomes cliché
And searching for some inner more
I find nothing to say

So dies myself in those before
Who said what I would say
To keep myself, my inner me
Perpetually at bay

At last all inner and all outer
This poem no exception
Is trapped within our history
Our devious contraption