BEMUSED
I've been told I am an average, not so bright
My grammar is weak and cadence, not of pride
I lack the ardor which ignites the playwright
My ideas are just obvious and trite
B
U
T
Little did they know,
I am a forlorn literary hack cloistered in a metaphorical garden
Rescuing myself from my own soul’s infernal horizons
Restructuring my choked up well, frozen in the petal shaped obsidian flower
Reincarnating the soul that died thrice in search of a four-leaf clover
Unaffected by critics' conclusion
Working to bring calmness into my fear
From thoughts that has now darkened
Dousing my incendiary plumes
I write! I write lines without meter or rhymes
For writing, is my only savior.