Have you felt thusly when you consciously pick up a pen,

That the constantly ongoing melee will never end,

Between brevity and thesis, quality and amount,

Between eternity and moment, dormancy and revolt?

Everyday I wonder if my blunders are gonna rise,

And if every mistake I put to stake will come with a price,

Every moment I torment the belief that it's all false,

And every seed that I sow won't have to cave in to my walls,

It's an illusion, a fusion of confidence and confusion,

A flowing ocean, emotions as weak as caustic solutions,

And I see no way to gauge these notions out of my brain,

So I pick up a page and try to drain the world of my pain,

It's a surprise dismal, but my abysmal problem persists,

In the written realm, exposing my deepest hidden conflicts,

And the battle, my muse, now continues, a war of the word

Between effective and descriptive- though the lines are now blurred,

And it's a shame how nobody aims at accomplishing both,

Or maybe I'm a baby for wishing perfection in chaos.

And how do poems all around resonate with my senses

When I have not a word yet found that doesn't drip pretences

So do I paint a faint facade or do I lay it naked?

Do I smother my pain with letters or disintegrate it?

Succumb to monumental phrases and forgo quality

And make platonic affection and love a formality,

Or do I play it true, and strip the ruse away from my pen,

And unravel the barbaric animal prowling within,

Do I achieve congruency between the slate and the self

Do I surrender to my blunders and write charring couplets,

Do I become a non-entity, what I always wanted

And pen vacuums of negativity from my environment,

Do I disturbingly relate or beautifully pretend?

Ah, the melee 'tween brevity and thesis will never end.