Every play written every which way.
I can't say something today
which hasn't been spewed yesterday.
It's all been said every inch of dread
someone has already read.
My pen rewrites like a blight
an infinitely infallible abyss.
never to be shown light.
I can try for a poem of bliss
but it's maps already been explored
I regurgitate what everyone else as also ate.
hate fills me but it's too late.
My pen as a mission to accomplish
the tip flings on searching for something to cherish.
I let it search scrying for a divine secret that I must tell
this is my curse as a writer the sickness I have befell.
In search of an everlasting truth
I mustn't give in or be uncouth.
Following my heart and my pen to it's rightful conclusion.