Days so foggy and more than unclear
Never changing it up, its ways so austere
A medicated daze pumps my heart at a slow rate
Until I can endure no more and exacerbate
A storm of emotions come in waves so undulant
They reoccur and reoccur and refuse to relent
The disease I have, the truth I know about this pestulience
Leaves me screaming inside, though it's only painful reticence
Like a luthier paired with his perfect violin
And a satanist commiting his very own sin
My writing solved my problems and perfectly expressed me
It's my glow, my gleam, my muse I explain fervently
But where do I turn when I know not what I seek?
I reach for my pen and allow all my ink to leak
My repitore only includes extremely trite rhymes
I get so frustered scratching lines after endless lines
The quality of my writing did slowly regress
With each fail of trying to myself express
So it never sunk in why my work was critizied
But then something so evident I finally realized
To regress means something good did exist
But only errors and misses in my writing did subsist
So I finally understood all your criticisms to be true
And now I stop these childish rhymes on account of you
