Why am I not good enough?
I don't find perfection growing in my poems,
So I cut them off, red lines diagonally across,
A few, English words, which are too light,
To hold up my tears,
Oh watch, another crumpled paper, lying by my desk for years.
Watch, my eyes bleeding in atelophobia,
My fingers, wishing, for an actual utopia.
I wish, O lord, to give back this ravaged soul to you,
Plant it in the depths of your lap, smile upon it,
Fill it with the hope, it might blossom someday.
What about me, O lord, why can't I get outta this haze,
I'm lost in this maze, of unsatisfied desires,
Why ain't I good enough?
You know, to give your best,
Yet be nothing among the rest,
Is indeed very tough.