When I am not enough

and my subtitle is reflective of this

Roksolana Zasiadko

Floating, I am drifting tides of insecurity, my minds might followed a darkened night of shadows that sit, lingering without opportunity.

Ideas once bloomed remain concealed in fear, the whispers that rest in my ear, taunting me, begging me to purge dreams of poetry.

My verse is empty, blank pages of rhymes that do not rhyme but haunt me. This sentence is obscurity, the pitts of blocks that will not release me.

I speak quietly.

I am no stranger to this, claws of doubt and rejection seep through my core until there is nothing more than the scars of fallen hopes across my skin.

Stars wrinkle and the moon is absent, but today, I am still writing.

That is something.