Am I a writer? A poem reflecting self doubt.


Inescapable Decay

I have always believed

That deep

Within me is a pain

An eternal scream

Borne at my conception

From which I have spent

My whole life

Fleeing

But no one can escape from themselves

Or the sound of their feelings

-Can they?

This is surely one of the great tragedies of being

It is as inescapable as the decay

Of self

That blistering inner skin

Of mental noise

Which wrinkles the mind

And destroys even joyous souls

My thoughts echo

As though they were transmitted

Through a microphone

I enjoy listening

To the hurt

My senses summon

But my intellect avoids

This poem is an extension and a variation of a poem I wrote some years ago. It derives from that place where self-doubt screams. Am I a crap writer? Probably, but so are most people. I shall continue to write, because without words the soul is dead.

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