Poesy of Eloquence

c. it is the end, so behold my best masterpiece

...because underneath this cracking surface,
the corners and crevices leak the tears;
and underneath this little solace,
are the terrorized voices my mind fears;
and I hate to feel this way all the time,
because it shows just how I am weak;
and I hate to forget what I feel for a rhyme,
because success is the path that I speak;—
so why do I dance this earthy pace,
and for whom do I chance this dirty face?
Why do I drip with so much sweat,
for someone who would not uphold the values I get?
And I hate to feel so coated with dimes,
but that is how I am rendered.
And I hate how my heart is taken for a crime,
but that is how the world has tendered.
And I hate how helpless I am against these rhymes,
which I must force out of my every spine;
and I hate how much words I must pour,
just to show the impact of my lore.
So when, can I escape this hell?
When, can I write without a shell?
And when, can my writing be recognized?
When, can my words not be despised?
When, can my thoughts hear my cries?
When, can my feelings put on these rhymes?
When, can my words finally be felt?
Because right now, I doubt, that they've been truthfully dealt.