It seems I'm doomed,
To a fate worse than death,
The fate of ineloquence.
My one desire is to write,
When no smooth ink flows of this pen,
When the tongue is coarse and vulgar.
Why is this my curse?
To be always be denied my true pleasure?
When others cruise so smoothly,
Why am I a sunken ship?
So, the question remains,
Shall I stop my blood from flowing,
Stop wasting it on words,
When nothing, Nothing! is coming back at all.
I fear,
My answer may be "Aye."