Circles

The pure white void finally engulfs me,
Those voices in my head, they’re so convincing,
“I knew that you were worthless, but my goodness.
Could it be you’re joking?”

Frustrated, overwhelmed, tired of ambition,
I try to force myself into submission.
“Write! Sing! Act! And paint!
What use has an artist with no recognition?”

Frustrated, overwhelmed, ready to surrender,
Child-like and afraid, I hide from the tormentor.
“Your single-use existence requires a permission.”
I sit my sorry-ass down, forever a pretender.

Frustrated, overwhelmed, afraid of competition.
With trembling hands I raise a haggard pencil,
Only to face a white void of fear smirking in disguise,
Terrified of failure and success, frozen up indisposition.

Frustrated, overwhelmed, and stuck in repetition