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.
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