Mediocrity

its difficult to write poetry
on a afternoon
grey and dull
darkness falling
like a furry moth( tough its not 4 o clock yet)
enveloping me
in a sort of suffocating vacuity
an aching nothingness
of having to accept
that ur mediocre
ive tried my best from keeping it from you
tried my best
to piece together
short staccato sentences
with pregnant gaps
and jagged edges
like a grey winter afternoon
struggling to hold on
to its weak light
because its not 4oclock yet
an empty passionless poet at twenty six
tried my best
so you wouldn't know, but perhaps
you already know that i cant anymore
that one cant have writers block forever
that its just a defense mechanism
that i am
only a mediocre person
terrified of my own mediocrity....