Just another sad poem

A Poem by imster

Describing this poem would be futile, everything is in the poem

Writing poetry with a pen
is a risky thing to do;
You can't erase your mistakes
you can cross them out
but a mark will always remain
there is a sense of permamency to it that resembles life.
Do we spend most our lives trying to cross out our mistakes?
Or do we continue writing... dauntless in our pursuit of happiness?
Why can everyone ignore these blobs of errors
and I can't seem to put my pen down to write.
do I lack they narcissism necessary to justify my marks
or am I the narcissist too self-consumed to continue