Kissing Dead Poetry

No one understands my pain whenever I say "I can never write poetry". Of course in admitting that truth, I always experience a thousand deaths. I try my hardest, mind you, but I guess my hardest is not good enough.
No one understands the sorrow that assaults my heart when I am stumped between tangled sentences. The brittle coldness of my uncertainty mocks me with callousness as I accept defeat from the Woolfian knowledge of the arrogant and those I consider creative prigs. And no matter how hard I stab into hell's veins to bleed it with the finest rhythms of metaphors, I could never howl with eloquence (the way others do) because deep in my heart I know that my thoughts are perversely mute. But no one cares. I am alone.

All that's left is me and my wretched poetry.