Without Talent

I never feel good enough about the only thing I can do.

Give me your heart,
but do not get too close.
When I'm with you, you're a host
from which a parasite can't part.

Undivided attention
is what I'll never receive,
as no one wants to believe
in my conviction.

My musings are bitter wine,
drier than clay.
The reason it's that way
is something I've yet to find.

Drifting without hope,
I see no reason to go on.
They were right all along
in saying I'm a dope.

Still, when I write,
I feel a release,
as inner violence and peace
escape clutches so tight.