I am torn. Torn between expression and perfection.
The poet in me Yearns to express, Express the emotions, the thoughts Wants to bleed out through my pen The shouts, the screams of man Myriad thoughts in my head.
But the perfectionist, the phobic that I am Forces these same hands that wrote To scratch out every sentence, every poem
Where I poured out my untellable stories. Crumples up every piece of paper Where my words bled.
And I'm torn. Torn between the desire for expression And the fear of rejection. But who will win? Who is ought to win?