I tend to rip several pages off my notebook.
Crumpling several papers and tossing it to the bin.
But then again, it just heightens the pressure.
And then I've had enough, feeling less of myself.
The day comes when I finally made it
Feeling relieved and composed
Admiring my work, I went back to myself
“What would they think of my creation?”
And the clouds above would darken over
Limiting the vibe that I felt minutes ago
There comes the very first droplet
Progenitor of the endless storm
Though it left a massive flood in my brain
I touched my chest but there isn’t anything
I’m actually a prisoner of myself
Sentenced forever, from a crime of unleashing
That was already engraved on the surface
That would never be witnessed
For I ripped the page off, and tossed it to the bin.