I feel compelled to write, but laziness swore to devour me.
Fear of not getting reviews stings deep in my veins as though it is a bee.
Low self esteem I thought I had lost comes pointing guns.
Sometimes I avoid letting my pen drip of ink, what if these sheets burn?
How would I gather those ashes?
The horrible backlashes.
What if they’re not good enough?,
What if I get ignored?
I need to remind myself that they don’t matter,
Smear my courage on the wall like stray breads giving in to to the wills of butter.
I feel like I’m forced to break the silence,
Combine truth and logic like simple science.
Chemical reactions happen, I find myself melting away,
Creativity evaporates, there’s no other way.
So again I fold back into my shell
Crumbled, quite frustrating and boring as hell.
Sometimes I cry,
Those tears of mourning are why I want to ignore the ideas given by my imaginations, but why?
Gladly my heart is opened to another world of creativity.
I flirt with paints and brushes, held in my captivity.
This is another world of creativity.