Apr 11, 2015
Poem 1.1
As I lie at the dead of night with thoughts of my works
Behold, these creations of mine causes much frustration and endless annoyance,
I ask oneself,
Why must things not be simple?
Albeit equipped with advance knowledge of many things,
Mind fails to grasp
This then leads thoughts astrayed
Causes creations to lay bury, no hope in seeing light
Why then, does oneself continue?
Is it naïveté?
Is it pride?
Or simply, is it the character of oneself?
Questions such as these haunts me as I lie during the dead of night.
