Paradox

There's nothing wrong with me
nothing appalling,
still I'm broken.
it's like... something crawling
when night's fallen
stung me.
when the darkest it is,
they say,
dawn will break,
that's when
I've hold beneath my fingers
the morning star.
it must be, I'm guessing
this never ending misery
of being a poet
of writing and singing
without ever solving
the unmistaken tragedy of life.
to be or not to be?
to write or not to write?
always triggering my head
this struggle that ends weakening
all waiting... every expectation
only to find me and my poet's souls
a dying soul
still my pencil demands answers
of ink and paper... and verses.
maybe it is guilt...
perhaps
if there is something to be forgiven
when unrequited love is forgotten
in the song, in my song
ha! paradox!
there's nothing else
to be written about,
life, love and death, by
not precisely in that order
only love awakens me...
but not today...