Analysis of ~ The Struggling Poet ~

Yearing to feel what's deep and inventive inside
To put my desires, and dreams on paper with pride
I thought I'd finally found the verse, but it won't flow
As is, my story goes

Seems my words are empty, and can't be bought
I'm freezing in this cold room, my heatbeat stops
Thinking I've captured feelings, but the well went dry
I've come to terms, I'm beating myself up inside

With no help from the intimidating dark cloulds in sight
My tired bloodshot eyes, from starring at a blank page all night
Don't have a grip on my pen, it's ripping a hole
coming to cut me deep, inside my soul

Perhaps, it's for the better, my pose went and left me
when poetries were half done
The unforgiveness of my own words has become
a race to find the truth, and the faster away I run
Even great clues in life are better than none

The colors from my heart are grey, and dreary
So at least I start to write with vigor, and furry
Then my tired eyes, feel the weight of a tormeted mind
I stare down at a few weakend lines

Still, I wait for something devine