as I toil along for words to come through
Clearly I'll never be in the mood
to get a simple message that is true
It should actually be easy
to put into words something so real
Everything could come along freely
if only I could figure out what's the deal.
For months, heck, years!
I've forced myself to write.
And yet for this simple one, yet dear
I've lost all my might.
All hope can't be found
As detriment seems to be in progression.
It seems that this is the only way bound
- an inevitable road towards regression