At times I try too hard. Too hard to come up with these phrases that illustrious poets and lyricists construct.
I try to dig deep into the chest of my heart to unlock experiences and memories that are inexistent, only to come up with nothing.
I try to sift and select the few intriguing memories that my heart has captured but not even they are of any use. They have no layers, they have no depth.
The feeling of incompetence descends on me like a thick blanket of worthless words suffocating me slowly.
I constantly compare the work of me to the work of thee, playing the role of the critic, I am my own assassin.
It’s from your heart and your soul, isn’t that what poetry about, not just redundant phrases and complex terminology. Poetry expresses the contents of one’s heart.
I write what I feel, using what I know, to come up with an imitation of what I think the definition of poetry is.
I write me.