I would give away my written lines just to be like others,

not so sentimental but plastic like my mother.

I would give away these poems with my written intellectual,

a poet’s talent comes with a curse that will always be perpetual.

Bloody hell! I had to be a writer and nothing more I can expect,

why not a painter, a designer or a damn good architect.

I am too involved with feelings because I think too much,

to make progress with my writing I can’t get rid of such.

And so I am depressed, anorexic and confused,

always insecure, absurd and sexually been used.

Ultimately hopeless as my fear always ascends,

cowardly unsuccessful with suicide attempts.

I owe it all to writing and those who think that it’s a grace,

it’s not always so exciting when this curse I have to face.

I rationalize too much and I’m wise beyond my years,

I cannot take upon what I can’t handle; my own life I cannot steer.

These are the things I write about and everyday I live,

no one else will value me unless confidence I give.

I damn the pen against the paper and the thoughts bursting from my mind,

the emotional attachments and the bloody thin red lines.

I don’t want to be a poet, I don’t want to write,

I am tired of these emotions destroying my young life.

But there’s nothing else that I could do in other words it’s pointless,

serotonin pills won’t be the boost to make me feel less hopeless.

I am not pretty or model type with gorgeous hair and laughter,

I’m just a poet who really dreams with “happy ever after”.

To write is what I live for and someday will die from this poet’s curse,

I will pass it down my offsprings and the fact that I can’t flee is of course what’s, worse.