To, a young poet.

I dig a cave within me

Poking at my blood and vessels

My pressure points and joints

I tear beyond recovery thinking it’s best for me

To only look in the mirror at destruction

I write from within me.

From the deepest part of me.

To give you a chance and ask.

Do you have any critique?

Is this good enough?

Critique me

Critique me

Critique me

Rip me open

Eat everything I am

And tell me I’m not enough

That I didn’t do good enough

That I don’t have to right style

That I don’t have depth

That I’m not good for the naked eye

To give you that, will be a death of a young poet.