minda-whiteley
Los Angeles
Sometimes your inner critic can overwhelm you. In my case, it has kept me stuck for most of my life. Others have told me my writing good in the past, but I haven't been able to accept it. Another problem is doubt, self-hatred, and fear no one will actually enjoy my poems. When I die, I don't want to have regrets because of fear. I know that poetry isn't the most popular genre nowadays, but I am no longer going to let that stop me from doing what I love.
raindrop thoughts
falling toward earth
in a death spiral
clouds weighing on my shoulders
heavy with the downpours
yet to come
driving me towards insanity
as I wait for emotional storms
to pass with finality
allowing me to put away
my umbrella of rationality
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 1:48 PM UTC
I am a spoon
in a cathedral
extravagantly decorated
yet, internally empty
in the echoes of the hymns
I exist, a manifestation
of dreams conquered
by divine intervention
a minuscule cloud
in a land-bound hurricane
growing in voracity paired
with destructiveness
my God is a razor blade
blood my only hope
of absolution
the last moments of sanity
hope fades
faith and violence inseparable
eternitys mates annually ovulating
giving birth to consciousness
awareness a sword
decimating free will
at the end of the day, it remains
we are no more than a rat in an electrified maze
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 12:25 PM UTC