Ah, the familiar burn of inadequacy.
I suppose my inner fire is alive again.
I cannot tell if the sting that courses
through my veins
Is one of expectations or hatred.
The curling warmth of just being enough a sweet, forgotten dream.
All that remains is a searing ambition
That blackens my blood into ash.
It will keep on burning,
Until, like before
my bones are nothing but crumbling,
fragile pillars of grey coal.
Then, the flame burns out for a while.
Life becomes as colorless as the ash I am made of.
Clouds of smoke come out my breath, as if to mock me.
I am dark until my heart sparks again.
And I am fuelled with passion again.
The passion blows away to reveal my incapability
And the cycle begins anew.