A Creative Illness

Alas, the feeling has kept me ill
That mocking passion within me still.
For I know well, I am shorn of my pride 
And no manner in life shall provide.

How I loathe the poets 
In a time before! 
And the use of language
Which exists no more! 

Try-how I try!
To comprehend the subtle wording 
And the use of literature today 
From yesterday converting!

And even the pen! A simple pen! 
Mocks me with its cruel indifference 
And the blank page, which words appear
Though my mind, shows interference! 

Critics all! And I am mine!
How I long to make a piece so fine! 
Alas the feeling since has left me ill 
That mocking passion within me stills!