#unoriginal
I seem to loose the essence of what all of this is about.
it before gave me a way to express what I desperately wanted to shout,
or maybe this is just a common case of a poet's drought?
I can never be certain.
I am my own worst critic,
could you say that I'm harsh or bad at doing my job?
is my self loathing so blinding that I have to look no further for the reason of lost essence?
I don't know what to think anymore
should I quit?
or should I try to live through this tiring phase?
I'm not one for holding on to hope for too long,
and neither am I one to pray.
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 2:23 PM UTC
that moment when you realize
too many of your poems
share the same title
because you are
unoriginal
af
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 5:06 PM UTC
"You are one in a million."
- Then you realize
that means there must be
THOUSANDS
Just.
Like.
You.
So you worry,
You fret,
You wonder
What it takes to
stand apart.
Youtrythingsyouwouldnototherwise.
U do thingz you can never 4get;
All just to be
original.
You write and profess
about matters you hardly understand.
You torture yourself
to
s t r e t c h
your limits.
You educate yourself
So to think
Like no one el$e ha$.
You adopt strange habits
In fluctuating,
foreign
accommodations.
Then you
r m e
u l
c b
when it all
slips...
You almost feel
Original.
...away...
You change your name,
Take on a new identity-
One like they've never seen.
Bleach your personality
And sulk behind lifeless, purple hair-
Garishly placed among a black and white world-
While inhaling toxic fantasies
That suffocate-
No, wait, perhaps they liberate-
Those things that make you feel
alive
and unique.
You are the Original.
You are unlike any force ever know. You are the thunder's roar and the wolf's howl.
But you can't shake this ominous feeling:
You've become unoriginal
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 12:51 AM UTC
...centipedes underneath big rocks in the dirt.
...worms on the pavement in the rain.
...rotting roadkill you drove over today.
...maggots writhing inside of dead brains.
...rainbows in great puddles of oil.
...fakest person you'll ever ******* meet.
...weeds and crabgrass polluting the soil.
...reason I hate humanity.
...nightmares preventing your sleep.
...dreams making your knees weak.
...scab you can't stop picking.
...ulcer you can't stop licking.
...spider in the bathroom sink.
...shakes you get if you don't drink.
...doubt whispering inside your mind.
...lies you've been fed all your life.
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 5:59 PM UTC
Poetry takes time and imagination
apparently, I don't have those.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 12:49 PM UTC
I am the black sheep
among the high-achievers
and
the sociable.
We don't
even
baaa..
the same tune.
Nothing
*****
more
than
being
compared
to them.
It is the height
of
cliche,
lack of imagination,
unoriginal.
Parents love cliche, right?
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 8:06 AM UTC