why do I even bother
when i wrote my poetry in a book it didnt matter
how many likes i had
how many views i grabbed
all that mattered was that i set my feelings free
but you see,
i am my own worst critic
writing my own scathing reviews until my wrists are arthritic
then what am i left with?
two *** wrists and an ache the size of Madrid
i dont know why i bother to publish my mind
another sick twisted jab at my soul aligned
with my heart
well my heart cant take it anymore
my mind is sore
time to give up the criticism
time to give up isolationism