It's all wrong, all of it.
Because the words that fall out of my mouth and stain the page are sophomoric at best,
And no metaphor can fool you into thinking I'm any better than all the rest.
I try and I push but my feeble mind is clouded by thoughts of you,
And my heavy heart will break if this is the best I can do.
Because it all started as a minuscule hole;
Which, aided by Misery's cruel company, began to implode.
Now, each night, I recognize a cold pain that resides in that dark cavity
That formed when I fooled myself into thinking he could complete me.
When all I ever wanted was to be happy and lovely and perfect-...
I may never be able to find the talent to ressurect.
So make me.
I'm giving you the power to do what you can.
Mold me beautifully, as though I were grey, raw clay.
Write me as an enchanting fairytale and give me all the greatest lines to say.
Because I will never be as great as you mistakenly percieve;
But somehow, I still want you to love me, despite all my inadequacies.