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I've been writing these pieces trying to convey my feelings
But the more I keep on penning, the more I feel it's worthless
I see the words in my poetic drafts floating above me
Distorted and seemingly meaningless but nonetheless...
I keep on writing and pruning, discarding and unearthing
Hoping and believing that soon it'll all make sense
And my words won't seem like a jumble of frantic thoughts
And my passion won't look as though a curse
Or a harrowing predicament.
I've been writing these poesies to free myself of distress
But I keep being engulfed by
Inept notes of many things,
If not everything about life
But still, bold enough to hold on to esperance.
Am I a poetaster, finding solace in the sanctuary of poetry?
Or am I a poet, eccentric in style and yearning for peace?
In all I want relief, but not just temporary;
And that I gain clarity of my dreams.