If I start to write a poem, will I finish it this time
Or will I give up midway through, because there aren't enough rhymes
In this old dreadful, awful language born of brutal feudal swine
Wearing wigs and pantaloons, and saying words like 'thee' and 'thine'?

If I have a hazy thought, will I succeed in making clear,
That murky bit of intuition felt, or will it disappear,
The minute I put ink to paper and begin to toy around
With all the scattered bits of insight that implicitly abound?

If I find myself inspired all the sudden by a muse,
Will she hastily retire before I can spread the news
Of all her wondrous gifts to me, that I so luckily did capture
In a transcendental state of exaltation, joy, and rapture?

If I have a vivid vision, flowing freer than the stream
Of a river, clear as crystal, and as dazzling as a dream
Will my will be of such power that I'll succeed to convey
It, or just fall flat in defeat and then retreat into dismay?

If I see sumptuous fruits that hang atop the mighty tree
That's down the road of human intellect and creativity
Will my reach extend sufficiently to gather them and bring
Them back into...into... oh, **** it! I can't think of anything.

                                                (╯°□°）­╯︵ ┻━┻

You'll envy every bit of unblemished skin
You see on those without it.
You'll wonder why you never seem to win.
You think you're well, but you're falling into a pit.

You'll cry more tears than ever.
You'll cry as if everyday you've lost,
And sometimes it feels like you'll never
Cry again.

You'll count the cost
Of living
When so tired of giving
You'll slip away,
Vowing to not see the next day.

They'll tell you of all the pain
It will bring to them
When your tears fall like rain
You'll be too numb

To think of anything else
But the road to your death
You'll see your belts
And wish they would take away your breath

You'll lose, you'll gain,
You'll forget who you were.