I'm not satisfied with you.

Hell, I don't even like you.

I've put my time into you,

My tears into you,

Even my confidence into you.

And still you fail me.
And still you disappoint me.

I've drafted my work and practiced my craft.
I've read from the greats, and still I'm not content.

Do I need to include a ******* metaphor for me to like this?
Maybe give it an overtone of gloom and despair?

My poetry is a name on an old tombstone.
Unread and dead.
My pen is in the hands of an "Artist,"
Who's words will never be said.

I'm not satisfied with you.

Hell, I don't even like you.

But so long as I have a pen In my hand,

Ill try to get a little better.