I struggle to write, struggle to sing,
stressing over the
little little things.
I’m walking and waltzing and spinning while thinking,
What am I supposed to write?
Spending the days, pen in hand,
When I get hot I
Turn on the fan.
But I’m still walking and waltzing and spinning while thinking,
What am I supposed to write?
What am I supposed to do
To make a poem that is true
With love?
I bring myself to realize
My writing may not tantalize
The angels I stare at above?
How do I start? How do I end?
Poetry is clearly not my friend.
I reach many dead ends.
Again and again.
It’s hard to describe beauty
Or when a feeling is without question.
It may sound too soppy
and over sentimental.
Is it worth it to bother
Over the little things?
Would it be easier to leave it
And dream?
Of all the sunsets I could see,
Of all the places I could be,
I stay in my house writing
Useless poetry.
Now I don’t write, I don’t sing,
Not stressing over the
little little things.
Because there are no more little little things.
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