If my work were my child
It’d be the middle one
In between my perfectionism, the elder
And my self-loathing, the younger
I phone up inspiration
To help with the troublesome kid
But she never returns my calls anymore
Motivation, I haven’t spoken to in ages
She left when my insecurities
Got the better of me
Said I’d become a pathetic husk of a man
Look at me
I don’t even have the energy to rhyme
Better toss this one on the pile
With the rest of them
What’s the pile, you ask?
It’s where I keep all my
No-effort narratives
Forgotten frivolities
Miserable musings
Worthless writings
Inadequate ideas
Laughable lines
Soulless stories
Cold chapters
Terrible titles
Bad books
Garbage
The pile is large
And it only gets larger
As time progresses
Because the quality
of something I write
Quickly regresses
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 6:49 PM UTC
If my work were my child
It’d be the middle one
In between my perfectionism, the elder
And my self-loathing, the younger
I phone up inspiration
To help with the troublesome kid
But she never returns my calls anymore
Motivation, I haven’t spoken to in ages
She left when my insecurities
Got the better of me
Said I’d become a pathetic husk of a man
Look at me
I don’t even have the energy to rhyme
Better toss this one on the pile
With the rest of them
What’s the pile, you ask?
It’s where I keep all my
No-effort narratives
Forgotten frivolities
Miserable musings
Worthless writings
Inadequate ideas
Laughable lines
Soulless stories
Cold chapters
Terrible titles
Bad books
Garbage
The pile is large
And it only gets larger
As time progresses
Because the quality
of something I write
Quickly regresses
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