And why am I losing myself,
against these egoistical pens;
who never stop writing,
and never stop their amends;
why do I keep thinking,
that I am so gifted;
while behind the screen,
my motivation has slowly sifted;
why am I dreaming,
that everything will be fine;
when I know that in the end,
nothing will ever shine;
and why does everything hurt,
under the pages and stories;
why has everything gone to dirt,
while we celebrate our glories?
YOU ARE READING
Poesy of Eloquence
Poetry❝ this tragedy is soaked with tears that dry the ink in my hands. ❞ ━ the poesy I've yearned to release ever since I taught myself to pick up the pen and write. ❝ for if the painting of my words be the garden upon the gate of heaven, glimpse them...
