Late into the night just writing out my mind,

Counting minutes lethargically observing the sands of time,

Slipping down the hourglass; wondering if I’ll ever get it right,

Winter Days killing my motivation while I’m struggling to create something new,

A bitter phase willing my oscillations of manias and depressive grooves,

I’m passing through,

This life searching for ways to align my soul with some sort of congruent truth,

My restless mind might just throw itself for a loop twice as often as you,

People always say “everything works out how it’s meant to be” but

I’m longing for evidence that can offer the proof,

Rhythms of the universe seem to be perpetually shifting whenever I begin to feel an inkling of balance,

Schisms of this unspoken waking dream eventually leave me tense with malice,

Hatred of this never-ending conflict between my practicalities and talents,

My heart shrinks some days in the hideous face of every arrogant challenge,

Trepidations pursue me from all directions,

My confidence wavers as my unsteady hand breezes across paper,

I ask myself “am I a poet or a madman?”