Damned.

She is as soft

as a cotton feather.

And as sensitive

as a baby’s skin.

 

But deep down,

Lies a monstrous soul.

Suppressing everything,

It grew to be mean.

The mask she wears
For other people’s pleasure

Hides the darkest corners

Of her mind.

At the crack of dawn,

The cover cracks like glass.

And starts to unleash,

The demon behind.

Now awake,

A little groggy.

It’s as if the monster

Had left her being.

But no one knows,

It’s always there.

Evermore, underneath,

Slowly breathing.

Battling the demon

Has always been tough.

They think she’s okay,

Assuming as always.

They’re not cognizant

Of what she actually deals with

A constant battle

That’s been going on for days.

Or weeks.

Or years.


 

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I can’t write right.

Sometimes I can’t write,

my mind’s being deceived.

Not sure if it’s right,

don’t know what to believe.

 

A blank piece of paper

stares intently back at me.

I can’t even bother

to write meaningfully.

 

It’s as if every inch

of creativity has been taken.

Maybe I just need a pinch,

or  a life-changing awaken.

 

Take me back

to those days,

when I don’t lack

the words to say.

 

A few drops of inspiration,

something to set the mood.

Using my imagination,

to write something good.

 

Perhaps, my talent is missing.

But, I can’t seem to discern why.

I used to long for writing,

letting every word go by.

 

I am thirsty to create anything

that will leave your literary soul

hanging, banging, jumping, craving.

Will I achieve my goal?