It seems as though
I can only write
whilst in the possession
of angst and fright.
I weep and moan,
fret and fidget...
The words come so easily.
Rhyming schemes,
haunting themes.
My byproducts of wounds
and worries.

However, currently,
no such struggles writhe within,
tricking
        and torturing
                         my mind.

Hence, here cometh
my semi-decent work.
Pathetic ploys, amorphous attempts.
Flagrant failures, endless endeavors.