I used to write proses unbothered by rules,
Poems with no assurance of being read,
Words just written to be free.

Now am I one of fools?
Fearing what comes out of my head?
Afraid of what others see?

Is this the curse of technicality?
Of knowing more about reality?
Bluff is that age comes with clarity.

Here is my **** to hell I send,
Existing is tiring year by year,
Is there anything more to feel?

I am far from the end.
But I wish I am near.
I have nothing time can steal.

They wrote me off
so I wrote myself in

I am too happy
        to write a poem,
Words can't describe my feelings

I am too busy
         to write a poem,
Crumpled paper on the floor

I am too sad
         to write a poem,
My mind is not here

I am unmotivated
        to write a poem,
I need motivation

I have too many excuses
          why I cannot write anymore,
but I want to, i just cant