My hope is leaning
My blood runs cold
Darkness from secrets yet untold
The words stop flowing
As my pen stills
Waiting for silence as it fills
The dripping rubies
Stain many walls
As screams of terror fill the halls
Silence is filling
They want no more
Bind my hands, i shall write no more

The worst type of critic
Is the critic with in me.
I always judge my work
Even if it's written perfectly.

Just like other critics,
I cannot silence this one.
But it takes a toll on my work,
It takes out all the major fun.

I love to write,
I love to share my ideas.
But I think all my work is crud
Even if it's beloved by my peers.

This makes the delete button
Oh so popular.
The inner criticism is choking me
He's got his hands against my jugular.

But I love what I do,
And I'll fight to the death,
Even if my work does ****,
At least I tried my best.

I have to remember,
The best is what matters,
Practice makes perfect
I just have to continue climbing that ladder.

It'll be a tremendous feeling,
When I reach the top,
Because I'll know no critics
Even myself,
Made me stop what I love doing.

Writing.

If you ever feel rejected by perfection,
know that perfection isn't even an invention.


Perfection only exists in the eyes of critics,
in the imagination of teenage girls,


in the harsh judgements of your surrounding,
and in the person you someday wish to become.

If this is all I have to wake up to; I rather not waste my time dreaming.