Self-criticism of a Writer


You write, And nothing’s special.

Look at yourself, You think you’re good? Who told you that you are? You’re not potent. Yes, you aren’t. You’re only dramatic. You’re just full of execration. You’re so talentless. You’re not enough. People will never choose you.

Never.

I pity you. You share nothing. What you do aren’t impressive. Apparently not. You’re just a trash. Your pieces just deserves to be rumpled. You’re words are redundant and irrelevant, extraneous and impertinent . They won’t see anything in you. And they will never choose you.

Never.

You’re just a quite and big dismay. You’re only nothing.

So stop making things you can’t really do. Hypocrite.


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Incarcerated


You’re screaming but they can’t hear.

You’re drowning but they can’t descry.

With people in hideous,

No one cares about your tears.

No one cares about your cries.

No one cares about your pain.

Only you and you can save yourself away from that distress.

Solitarily.


A Real Escape


Maybe, it’s the right time to stop.

Maybe, it’s the right time to close my eyes.

I’ll now give my mind and my heart it’s rest.

It’s my time of escaping from reality.

My soul will run away and this worst feeling will be gone.

Suddenly and temporarily.