Curse To Rehearse

Curse To Rehearse I am a writer. An artist. I’d like to say I’m a poets, But I don't really know it, And I definitely cannot show it, Because I haven't gotten it right. I am cursed with a thirst To rehearse, verse by verse Until I can tell myself it’s decent. Words flow like water from the tip of my pen And even though I may read it over and over again, I usually like what I write. But of course you don't, Or at least that's what my mind tells me to think I am plagued with a curse To rehearse my work, verse by verse, To question whether my art is better or worse Than what I believe it to be. My words thrive in an imaginary universe Where every verse is dispersed and dispersed Until everyone knows what I am saying. Outside of that dream There is always a theme Of doubt and defeat Where my wants seem to take the back seat And all I hear is my pounding heartbeat. Maybe I can write, but I may never know, Nor will I let my work show, Because I am still stuck with the curse To rehearse, verse by verse. But even if you tell me I can write, I will never believe you.