Dear Reader,
Another poem written in the middle of the night. When I wake up in the morning, thoughts of inferiority will cloud my mind and I will think this is the shittiest shit ever written and Jane Austen shall rise from her grave only to stab me with a knife and go back to her grave after I would have been dropped off in hell.
I am at a crossroad
where guilt surrounds my being
insults flow in my blood
my mind goes blank
I drown in the unhappiness
of my own creation
the poets in the past
felt similar pains & feelings
yet they could conjure up dreamscapes
while I beg for god
to let me breathe in joy for the last time
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