I strain to chase my own inspiration
But ev’ry day there’s only artifacts
From my past eras, this lonely creation
Takes every fleeting feeling like a fact.
I seek, I seek, but rarely do I find
The abstract answer I was looking for;
You’d think you can’t get lost inside your mind
But sometimes you don’t own the parts you store.
It truly is a pit without a bottom
To stare the depths that lie within your heart
Because we underestimate the *****’s
Ability to turn pain into art.
Although it may appear to be a void
A writer’s well of words can’t be destroyed.
Never done a sonnet but feelin shakespearean today. Didn’t realize how complicated it was but now i know what iambic means.
