I think I've caught something,
worse than the flu.
Its comes to me slowly,
clogging my mind,
Hindering me from
breathing fresh life into my poems.

Then I start to sneeze

excuses, cough up reasons.

Now I'm hoping that I could be sick enough that I wouldn't feel the guilt,
Guilt of putting aside my passion.

The guilt,
dripping on my forehead
-Cold sweat, drenching me up to my sleeves from

over thinking.

Sweat and guilt,
Enough to fill two cups. And now I'm left with my hands too full,
to write anything.

But even if my hands were free,
They'd be useless.
Still tangled up in themselves
Choked by the pressure to write better than him, or making a better rhyme than her.

But that was never the reason why we write.
Never the reason for us to pick up the pen and let our feelings leak out into the paper, leaving the streaks of ink to spell out whats been written all over our hearts.

Why have we made poetry some kind of cut throat competition?
Like we're trying to please some sort of king we've conjured in our imagination.