Line for line,
I write my thoughts down,
Scripting my inner
Monologue.

Thought by thought
I turn them over
My motivations and intentions;
My driving dialogue.

I poke, I ****,
Scrutinise and summarise.
I leave them and walk away
And then I catalogue.

I cry out on the inside:
Why can't it just come easy
But that's perfectionism
The *****, I want to flog!

This road doesn't grow thin,
But gets deeper within.
Or is it like a diamond, 
Compressed within in the smog?