Everything I write, everything I draw; delete
The things I create, I cannot complete
Is it being insecure or being lazy?
I don't know how to be a productive lady
I feel stupid
Since I can't anything executed
My work lives in the recycling bin
It's close in resemblance to a din
The backspace key is faded
My soul is abraded
I hate that I can't articulate
Does anyone else relate?
At least this poem is finished but it has no real end
I hope it shows what I intend
