They read my work like vultures read death-

shredding it to pieces till all that is left,

is the sour scent of envy

and wasted breath.

So, I ask myself again. . .

is it worth it?

To write is to expose

the inner workings of my soul;

a scribbling of sorts;

a wishful way to weave me whole,

or at least leave a lasting imprint

like a dent from a heavy sole.

But what if all I leave behind,

is a memory, like spilt red wine,

from all the times I tried and tried

to find the words to free my mind,

from the haunting whispers in my ear:

You are nothing-

never will be,

and your words are wasted space.

You are nothing-

never will be

-disgrace,

-disgrace!

-disgrace!

What then?

My words are the scattered shards of failure.

Is it worth it to write again?

I'd rather wait for the vultures

to sing me some respect. . . .