I Never Found Sense In Burning My Own Poems

You know, I planned on turning in early; Put myself down to rest, but something About the rhythmic tapping always gets the best Of me. That nervous twitch that supersedes Me physically. Drawing out the the words in the only way I know how. "Standchen" with ears wide open! No need for eyes. All I need to see is written delicately in front of me. Poetio Concerto: orchestrated as I feel fit. I planned on turning in early; putting my pen down. Days had passed until I asked myself "could I leave something so profound"? A once burning passion turned draining obsession. Every emotion, every waking moment, all of lifes components; Taken, twisted; cramped into metaphors and analogies. But who will be the next to read? Not I said the author. I cannot cut myself with the swords that I have made Written down on paper are thoughts that I have slayed. Take them and do with them what you will. I've hid them, saved them; watched them stale in a pile. I've kept them safe inside a folder, and I've burned them Watching every stanza smolder. I never found sense in burning my own poems, It helps me forget, at least that's what I told her. I planned on turning in early but it always seems to find me. An ugly little thing, this poetry. "Teasing Comb" an emotional plea turned cruel prophecy. I will not write my future, I refuse to. I am no puppet master and puppets I refute you. My doubts, my fears, I speak of them freely. I've learned: speak of your weaknesses and you will seem weak. Speak of your strengths and you will seem strong. But speak of your insecurities and you will be underestimated; Put in a position to prove everyone wrong. I speak of myself freely to make all of me strengths And through this I do to prove myself wrong and will continue and any length.