every poem i try to write
seems to have already been written.
the moon, the stars, the scars on her arms,
already done.
i want to be something new, something different.
describing the feeling of feeling complete, the feeling of youth, exchanging heat in the backseat,
already done.
this picture I have in my mind
comes out as stick figures on paper.
the anxiety, quietly trying to live,
rebel against society,
every rhyme seems cliche, the special depressed snowflake style that i try so hard to stray from.
oppressive, depressive, aggressive, but it’s unimpressive.
every word i write
has already been written.