Clumsy, my ideas move
Nothing to prove.
Awkward in movement
As I continue to seek improvement.
Over and over the voice comes “You, without skills, no grace.”
The good in me get’s chase.
“Was I awkwardly mad?” is the question that my thoughts crate
So many empty thoughts with so much weight
“When would I arrive
To no mans land?”
As clumsy as they are
They eat every inch of my mind.
My mental coordination is no more
The feeling is felt all the way to the core.
So awkwardly contrived
Yet so deadly designed
Not only by me
But by the empty thoughts that I want to set free.