Discombobulation, A Frustration

In words, straight from this writer's heart ~ my soul, or some other sensitive anatomical part, I consider a poem a failure, without success when poetry readers consider it a bloody mess. Sometimes I write in the midst of discombobulation. It's catharsis in a bottle of ink to a confuzzled mind. Relief to me when I'm puzzled, not when I am blind for to see what others don't, soothes my frustration. In my thoughts, black and white scenes are flitting. There's an urgent need of color, but none seem fitting that my pen and ink consider worth transcribing. It's discombobulating for me, as if I'd been imbibing. Trying to sound cohesive when using clever metaphor can weigh me down until I am prone, crying on the floor. There are themes in some contests that seem ill-defined, when I've no clue about a subject and I feel confined. I'm drowning in quicksand, and no one can pull me out. It's grimly perplexing to be filled with such brooding doubt. My words begin to ramble, and I get lost in a blunder fest. Seriously, it's a conundrum. About this woe, I wouldn't jest. I wind up scribbling sonnets without meter or hint of rhyme. A saturnine absurdity and a complete waste of my time. An infinity of feckless, ineffectual lines without vitality, so much so that my poem winds up N/Ad. Another fatality. I need to find a way to make other poets savor the taste of what I breathe in and then exhale so that it's interlaced with profound meaning that others might comprehend, instead of mere words on a page, that no editor could mend. I don't mind constructive criticism. I'd be a foolish ingrate to not accept well-meaning advice. Wisely, I'd contemplate changing the course of a poem that simply doesn't mesh. I'm not so discombobulated to realize when I need to refresh.