Why is it so hard to create something that you're not ashamed of? Everything these hands create, they tear back down. Tear it out of my chest. Superimpose it on paper, just to rip it up and start all over again. Now there's blood in the wastebasket and I've got nothing to show for it. I start all over again. With each new beginning there's less of me left inside. My damaged pride and my heart in the wastebasket, and I've got nothing to show for it. I'll start all over but why do I put myself down when I know I will just throw myself away. Sometimes it seems like I can't get out of my own way.