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I've tried.

But why can't you see I'm dying inside?

Is this my curse then?

Left with no one but mine own pen?
It crashes like a wave so much bigger than a tidal.

It's painfully obvious my destination's final.

And now the world seems so horrible,

It's cuts greater than that of the Vorple.

I write so much more,

But my soul's too poor,

My hand's so sore,

My heartstring's tore,

I can't handle more.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

Writing had been my peace for many years. When pain is too much. Good to write them down. I like the thoughts and the purpose of the poem.
"I write so much more,
But my soul's too poor, "
Thank you for sharing the excellent poem.
Coyote