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:

Crash.

Boom.

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.

You.

You.

You.

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.