I’m bad at writing.
I just can’t figure it out.
I struggle to make subtle symphonious sounds,
And am absolutely atrocious at alliteration.
Irony has always been more my specialty.
But no one seems to enjoy my comedy.
Rhyming is a pain and I see no gain in it.
I’m bad at stories;
I’m way too wordy.
My vernacular is limited,
And I’m not very articulate.
But besides all of that the tools for writing confuse me.
Other kids write in pen, or pencil.
Or even type it online,
But I can’t seem to do that.
Instead I tap my mind like a tree,
And pour sticky, sweet, syrup on the paper.
I carve my arms and watch it drip onto the page,
Dying it in pain and agony.
Or I pour my heart and soul like a tall glass of wine,
Leaving contemplation and triumph on the document for anyone who reads it.
I’m just bad at writing.
I don’t understand timing.
But I’ll try to leave you feeling something.
I’m also bad at endings