You’d think I love poetry,

That poetry is all that truly matters to me;

But like everything else,

Poetry too is a curse for me.

This might make no sense to you,

It’s okay, it makes no sense to me either;

All I know is that making everything poetic,

Sometimes leaves me tired.

It’s times like these when I hate these words,

For making me fall in love with them;

Ask Atlas if he loves holding up the sky,

Or me if I love these pages & my pen.

When I cannot write these rhyming words,

I forget who I truly am;

I feel I’m just another piece of meat,

Rotting at the bottom of this overfilled garbage can.

These words are always powerful,

These patterns are often satisfying;

But the emotion behind every verse,

Is just another part of my soul crying.

But there are times when these words vanish,

My mind feels heavy & my soul feels naked;

I feel like I’ve been robbed of my filth,

I feel nothing else except self-hatred.

But I’ll keep writing these lines, 

These words are all I truly have;

In this labyrinth filled with false mirages,

These lines truly define who I truly am.