The words you write, you're going blind,
You hide away, leave light behind.
Your world’s gone dull, it lacks a shine,
How much of truth will you define?

You beg for answers from above,
But guilt is not what gods are made of.
You did it all, don’t mask, don’t fake —
Refuse the lie, or let it break.

Be kind, be bold, begin to see,
The mirror’s cracked — the fault is me.
You bury night to chase the time,
But still the sun will rise at nine.

You found the page but lost the pen,
You try to start and stop again.
You call it luck, you hope it shows,
But talent hides where no one knows.

You write, you dream, you paint her face,
But words won’t earn a lover’s grace.
No rhyme can pull her into crime,
No line can cross that sacred line.

Still here you stand, a voice confined,
A life half-lived, a heart resigned.
Inside this shell, thoughts twist and wind —
This is your cursed poet’s mind.

You want words?
Fine.
A poem born in the dark,
Posted under borrowed light — right?

You chase beauty
Because you’re scared of the blight.
You hide in daylight,
Where nothing really shines,
Yet you still commit the crime
Just to earn a ******* dime.

Yeah, right.

You call it pride,
But it’s fear inside.
You drink outside,
Act like you’ve survived,
But you’re hollow.
No one sees what you’ve swallowed.

You want a poem?
Look at the line —
Where the girl’s always right,
And you still want to fight.
You walk with pride,
Like you won the night.

You dream her.
You please her.
You think you ******* deserve her.

Your mind’s disturbed.
You smile soft,
But fall hard —
Every **** time.

You want redemption?
Then speak.
But you’re weak.
You preach dreams
But drown in extremes.

You try,
You cry,
But never ask why.
You bleed in silence,
Cling to violence,
Think pain is defiance.

And still —
You think this is poetry?

Alright —
This is your poem’s ******* theme.