AND MY POEMS NEVER SEEM ANY GOOD

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 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 THE 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.