Thick Skull

I wish I only ever had to write poems,

that I could just lock myself up,

armed with midnight ink

and let myself go.

I could live that way:

Alive and unafraid

in these lies or these truths.

But I lack the right kind of ambition,

I lack that bravery.

I'm in love with what I'm not

and I loath my own lifestyle -

alone, in this bed,

with my head sharply aching.

I've let myself go.

So here I am,

locked in my room, just writing this,

hoping it will make me exist

outside my own thick skull.

Reviews

[*Private Person*]

enjoyed yoru first stanza, like the ending as well, sounds like me. Well expressed emotions!