MEDIOCRITY

It's difficult to write poetry

on a winter evening.

Grey and dull.. darkness falling

Like a furry moth

Enveloping me in a sort of suffocating vacuity

An aching nothingness

That comes from the pent up frustration

Of having to accept... that you're mediocre

I've tried my best

To keep it from you

Tried my best...to piece together

Short staccato sentences with pregnant gaps

And jagged edges

Like a grey winter evening

Struggling to hold on

It's weak light

Because I'm only twenty-five yet

An empty, passionless poet At twenty-five..

Tried my best

So you wouldn't know

But perhaps, you already know

That I can't anymore..

That one can't have writer's block forever.

That it was just a defence mechanism

That I am only a mediocre person

Terrified of my mediocrity.