A Writer's Frustration
As my hands rip the paper,
Another sheet of my soul is torn.
What part of myself
Demands this self mutilation?
It is my eyes!
See how they flow at the sight of
Words once so adored?
It must be my brain
That has now deemed its own thoughts
Worthy of execution.
No, it is my heart,
Who, upon reading the words it
Bled onto that blank page,
Has decided the spilled emotion
Far too inadequate to continue
Beyond this room.
As my hands rip the paper,
Another sheet of my soul is torn.
What part of myself
Demands this self mutilation?
It is my eyes!
See how they flow at the sight of
Words once so adored?
It must be my brain
That has now deemed its own thoughts
Worthy of execution.
No, it is my heart,
Who, upon reading the words it
Bled onto that blank page,
Has decided the spilled emotion
Far too inadequate to continue
Beyond this room.