To some, it comes easy

to me not so much

This may sound a bit cheesy

but I mess up everything I touch.

Friendships here and there

I sit in discontent

and glare with despair

at something I can't prevent

I doodle a small rhyme

to not feel so alone

but deep down it's a sign

I live in monotone.

But a small rhyme becomes two

and then two becomes four

soon my poem takes shape

and I don't need rhymes anymore.

I find my rhythm fluid

and then comes the kick

my poem turns dark

and I become a cynic. 

I become critical of everything and everyone.

Why do some experience sadness, where others see fun?

In solitude, I sit, isolated I hide.

Everyone is different, but they all seem unified.

This poem is kind of silly

but sometimes silly is good

I feel sometimes like I'm really

just misunderstood.