I'm disappointed in myself,
Because I used to be buried in my writing.
Pouring my mind, my words, my intellectual ability
Into my work.

I pieced words together
in a way that could make you feel what I said.
You could feel it.

I spent hours upon hours, upon days and nights,
Writing until I couldn't go any further.

Everything about me really changed,
Some things maybe not as much as other things,
But I changed.
In a small way,
that you can't really quite put your finger on.
And in a large way,
That might never be the same again.

I'm disappointed that I've sunk to this—
Mediocre form.

Like I've always tried so hard—
Gave it my all,
Became relentless,
Gave more than enough,
Pushed myself beyond this mortal limitation—

Only to get the short end of the stick,
To be let down,
To be broken,
To receive less than half,
To be tossed aside,
To be taken for granted,
Whatever else.

And the result of me not trying anymore.
Not trying hard, at least.
Giving such a bad amount of effort, that I feel bad for.
Because I'm not like this.

I'm sorry.