My insatiable desire to write is never quenched. I'm drowning in cliche remarks and unoriginality. Plagued by plastered up pieces of waste. The talent exhausted is unappreciated in a spectrum of disbelief. A doubt so vigorous And unrelenting is suffocating my every breath until I can no longer breathe. I lack the appropriated and strenuous words to keep on. Writing is a passion not a talent. This passion is smothered with awful remarks and poor attitude. Criticism is necessary but only to an extent. Frequently based on the conditions of the environment around me I act much like a chameleon trying to blend in hoping I won't be picked apart by the predators I am concealing myself from. Manifested by poetic traits, just lacking the motivation to put pen to paper. Surges of sophisticated symphonies leave my finger tips. For me not being the only with wasted talents.

A creative tone touches the air. Wrapping itself around the brains of those intrigued. Speaking to them solemnly severing all doubt they have had for themselves. Ripping the ripe fruit of future off the tree and into the mouths of those willing. Giving a guaranteed sense of integrity. No longer falling hopelessly in the void we call time, mainly because it is ticking away.