sitting,
in the darkness of my room
trying,
trying to squeeze out something,
profound or,
heartbreaking or,
anything
to prove my worth
by spilling my heart out on a page

but instead,
i sit
slicing deeper into my soul
punishing myself
for my inability to
express
my
emotions
through the medium of poetry
despite my admiration of
the stuff,
the sophisticatedly woven lines
pieced together so precisely
they create art,
showing my attempts as inferior

but I suppose the best art is self-deprecating