POEM: I can't write beauty

In the depths of my soul, where lies reside,

I've ceased to craft beauty with my pen's stride.

For I abhor the falsehoods, the deceitful guise,

That cloak the world in pleasing, tempting lies.

Years spent chasing passion, elusive and grand,

Seeking reflections of self in shifting sands.

Yearning for moments to burst within my chest,

With awe-inspiring fervor, where dreams are blessed.

Yet, despite the pursuit, my words turned bitter,

As emptiness engulfed, a silent quitter.

My visage may gleam, my frame may slender be,

But inside, a void, a vast, hollow sea.

Not colors nor acts, nor wealth's tempting hand,

Nor the gaze of others, nor fame's demand,

Stirs the fire within, igniting my soul,

For beauty's facade no longer holds control.

Instead, it's the struggle, the weight on my breast,

The tears and the blood, the plea for rest,

That stirs the embers, that fuels the flame,

In the depths of despair, where I find my name.

Perhaps I'm a masochist, with fractured speech,

But in truth, it's the struggle that I seek.

So let beauty fade, let its allure wane,

For in the darkness, I find my refrain.