hollow ring of the creative self

i look back at my poems as of late
and i realize i’m missing something,
the emotional “oomph”,
the hard pounding gravitas,
the raw undeniable feeling
that what i write has been glazed over,
sugarcoated sweetly,
but more often than not,
an immense level of procrastination
that sits lethargically within my soul,
or just plain fucking indifferent
to truly,
without any hindrance,
express myself
and things beyond just
mere food obsessions,
racism rants,
funny anecdotes,
and random bullshit.

i feel like my life is going well
yet if i really look at myself
i know there are some nasty worms
that crawl within my mind,
worms of jealousy
that is ugly to the senses,
leaving a foul bitter aftertaste
of shame and confusion
in its wake.

this is for another day.


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