Now I know how Van Gogh felt,

always inadequate,

despite what others tell you.

Pencil to paper,

but the words slip away,

hands shaking,

a pounding in my chest.

It’s the obsession:

not feeling good enough,

but needing to put something down…

anything.

My thoughts haunt me,

begging to be written down.

They won’t stop,

not until they are.