I don't know how to deal with life;
It seems I cant do anything right.
While one moment is full of bliss,
The next is tinged by bitter kiss.

When things are going beautiful,
I find wrong and ruin it all.
Where should I draw the line?
I thought my standards were just fine.

It's hard to be morally strong
When people say I'm doing wrong
By expecting them to be good,
While deep down I know I should.

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?

I hate myself so much for this

I'm in this vicious cycle, see
The current pulling under me
I feel so numb and lost at sea

Sometimes in the ebbing tide
You can hear my lonely cry
Yet all the boats that come by
Leave me there alone to die

I hate myself so much for this

Some ships seem to understand
And come close with outstretched hand
But just to feel the wind and sand

The truth is, the fault is mine
I knew the dangers of the brine
But ships beyond the shoreline
Drew me in like fishing line

I'm weary of this twisted world
Lacking virtue and moral
No one's perfect but this extreme
Is a nightmare, not a dream

Despair is closing in around
Not a person have I found
Who wants person over flesh
Everyone's demanding ***

Many years have I spent
Watching for someone unbent
But such a soul I cannot see
In such a world we are not free.