You try too hard
To be creative
And you want to break out of
The infamous writer's block,
But the only thing you're breaking
Is the lead of your pencil
And the bones of your fingers
As you push too hard
To get the pain out of your body
And onto paper.
God, you try too hard
To appreciate the beauty in life
By writing about it,
But your words always come out dishonestly
As you attempt to glamorize the world
While your own is crashing around you.
You've always been told that poetry needs metaphors,
But you can't always focus on figurative language
When your life is already a series of onomatopoeia:
You can't just attempt to blindly surround yourself with similes:
"Life is like a box of chocolates,"
Says your optimism,
But no matter what,
The sweetest chocolate
Will always be bitter
To someone else.
It's always about you:
Your struggle, your story, your self-doubt, your blood, sweat, and tears,
Your hatred and fears,
Your inability to let go,
Your loss of years,
Your anxiety and woes.
And you never even stop to realize
That it's all getting better.
You're just too scared of better
Because you've never known that type of weather:
What if it drowns you like the hurricanes of the summer?
What if it freezes you into the blizzards of winter?
Moriah, you can never know what will happen.
So stop writing about your worries,
And go find out.