Writing isn't about how much
Anger you can accumulate.
It's about heart and such,
And at that, passiom agate.

Rage within one's soul,
Provides a lot of drive.
But reversing without control,
Is nothing at which to strive.

Sorrow seeping through the seams,
Seamlessly slithering into your dreams,
As you start to slip away from reality,
And realize its lob-sided lethality.

Misbelief can be misleading,
Leaving your heart utterly bleeding,
Creating holes that bore far,
And serum that cannot soothe the scar.

Fear makes one easily fickle,
And become rusty and rotten.
And just as one discards a pickle,
So too, you become forgotten.

So, be not what comes not naturally,
For you are created beautifully.
And in the state in which you are joyful,
Go forth, and flourish, and be fulfilled.