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To me my poems never seem any good
To my family and friends I'm misunderstood
Line by line my life spills to the page
Whether it be in sadness, whether it be in rage
Reading again over and over, perfection always a miss
Tearing the paper into pieces, never achieving bliss
Veins pulsing under my skin, my eyes bloodshot from crying
And in my words, imperfect as always, they tell of how I'm dying
Readers go over what I've come up with, not a single thing to say
Again proving to myself, I will never write the perfect way
For some reason I write, continuing this pain
Why write for pleasure, when better I could write for gain
So to end this depression I write day in and day out
Sometimes never knowing what my poems are about
Yet here I sit again, seeking perfection, getting half
Waiting for the readers to look on in and laugh
So imperfect, so misunderstood
And still I wonder why, my writing is never any good
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