Let my poem live

I have erased more than 16 full texts by now and I still find every word I write ridiculous to the bone, it bothers me. Sentences are like insects they crawl in asymmetric lines and bug me. I am disgusted by my melancholic metaphors and self fulfilling messages. I have finally become too pretentious for my own sake. It’s no literary pleasure, it’s literary vomit that i have been producing lately. I am shocked that nobody has slapped some sense into my hard head yet. But considering my seclusion loving character, i must discipline my own performance.
Spare me the lectures of my elders and my peers’ experienced opinions. They read my posts and think they have the power to now sum up my personality traits into sane or pathological patterns of self dysmorphia. I do not write for an audience I write because I don’t speak so well. I can’t make much sense vocally. So there goes, not art just convenience, another way of practical living; survival.
A rant; perhaps. Artistic rebellion; perhaps. There I go with my lyrical worship attempt. Again.
I must lay off the music, the books and the unsupervised freedom of expression. Unsanitary unnecessary classification of my human experience. I am a suggestive sensual and anarchic case of shy and dismissive femininity. I am so full of words I am a poem overflowing into rhythmic confession. Dear lord I beg thee, let me cause no harm and feel no hurt for I am an inconclusive case of human contradiction.
Forgive me and Forgive thee for an imperfect design. Forgive and watch a beauty so extraordinary peel through the shredded failure of human impotence. Forgive, and let my poem live.

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