at some point in time you have to move beyond drafts
being comfortable to just write
creating and crafting something that only you can understand.
forged from pain only you feel
so why shouldnt you
write like a desperate man with everything to loose and nothing to live for.
drowning in sorrows
grappling at that life boat of release
this emptines of being full to the brim
but unable to let go
like a hard up virgin
not schooled in the art of pleasuring herself
thinking that the orgasm just happens
on its own without that ever so subtle touch.
At some point frustration gets tired,
like a played out defense mechanism
but who can symphatise with someone rotting in a prison of their own making.
writing cliques about nothing and everything
and its really exhausting you see.
you are not allowed to feel frustrated
and burnt out
because life still goes on
It waits for no one
Least of all, me.