I am bitter about poems
I am bitter about pens
The smear of a pen
Cannot be compared
To the smear of failure written on my paper

The purity of a blank paper brings distraught
But it craves for purpose to be inscribed all over it
A diamond is respectable
I cannot understand how it can still radiate with beauty though tons of pressure has been applied to it
Because when that happens to me
I become a twisted mess of nothingness that cannot have worth