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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required It is a fact that before I wrote True Colours, I was stuck in a world of black and white bipolar, encaged in my seat on a non stop rollercoaster, eating one meal a day cooking bread in a toaster. Do you know if from here I should..... Nope wait, if it was you then would.... No I hesitate, before I wasn't sure I could write so shall I carry on with doubt I'm good. Should I continue to write? Stick at it and improve I could? Would I get better each night? It's tricky to know if I'm good. I wish for a talent but it's not apparent, it's something I want but maybe I haven't. I'm a thoughtful fighter with a physical dominance, who puts pen to paper with a mental confidence. The anxiety causes stress and that makes me a messy mess too, nonetheless I guess all I can do, is pursue hopelessness whilst I continue to harness this writing skill and improve, while I remain myself and stay true, or I could give up what do I choose? It's amazing how the praise can make me lazy, and all because the bar was raised. To think that that's where it remains is crazy, without the application my skill decayed. Living off past glories and falsely self assured, hides the fact the present leaves them bored. The reward is forgotten without consistency and the reputation plummets into history. You need to bounce from test to test like a ball, contest with the very best and prove you're no fool, then you must not allow the standards to fall, you must allow a new hunger to be installed. I continuously doubt what I am all about, I'm a drought that sprouts limited amounts, it's the same bounce of the ball in all my bouts, my mouth shouts in repetition and I've lost count. I continuously doubt what I'm all about, I'm constantly worried and living in doubt, I'm in a black hole will I ever get out, I continuously doubt so that's what I'm about. Why would I refuse to continue after I didn't refuse to begin.
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