There is this decent into darkness
That I often go down to.
Where I wonder what the point is,
And question all my skills.
Where my poems become less lyric
And more of a tangent.
Where I wonder why I write,
And keep on going...
Question my own sanity,
As I write poem after poem.
Try stories and essays.
To try and be a golden star.
But the darkness comes to eat me up,
And remind me of what I am not.
I long to be a success.
And find that I am left behind.
Where I hope and write,
To fall of wagons and broomsticks.
And suddenly make no more sense.
It's as if my mind gets dried up.
Nothing more comes in flows,
And suddenly I find that I am no more.
I get sad and mad.
Instead of glad.
Because I want more....
To be more than a writer of so little.
But a successor of so much.
About the Creator
Lane Burns
I am a Poet and an inspiring short story, one day novel writer.
I like to write in free verse mostly, but am heavily inspired by Emily Dickenson, and tend to create my own rules and ideas as well.
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