That poem was so difficult to compose
it caused so much heartache and pain.
Repeatedly I returned to its structure
and rewrote it again and again.
I struggled to find the words
that conveyed what I wanted to say.
The reality of failure became so close,
it was only a knife edge away.
So annoyed that it wouldn’t come together,
so frustrated that I faced defeat.
My inner turmoil tore my psych to shreds,
until I’d conquered the written sheet.
I have not written a poem i could be proud of for sometimes,amid these weeks of distress had given me what i suppose people call writers block.Am i fine now?i dont know yet,but i know im still breathing tho.
I think i look like hell,yea? lol