i've been told to turn my
pain into poetry,
but how can i
now that every word
i write down
seems to crumble around me
unfinished,
uninteresting,
and unimportant?
nothing i do seems to
satisfy me anymore,
and it feels almost as if
creativity has eaten my flesh
all the way down to the bone
and discarded the rest of me;
my bland skeleton.
it feels almost as if
i am an empty vessel,
devoid of talent,
of my own essence,
a jigsaw piece
forced into a separate puzzle
and therefore
doesn't quite fit
