Untitled poem

Deep locked in the chasms of my mind
Every cobweb screams of my inadequacy
Every idle moment amplifies my failures
I can only sit in the dark
pull out my hair, smash my fist against the wall
Why can't I?
Why can't I be beautiful or brilliant?
Why can't I take the initiative?
Why am I content in my own mediocracy?
Unable to act but at a command
Unwilling to take the steps needed?
Why is it in my mind, I am shakespeare
I can conjure up works of brilliance and ideas of pure gold
Yet my hand is unable to pen them
The canvas is unable to contain them
The tongue is unable to express them
Curse this body for weakness, for sickness!
As well as the incessant, never relenting hand of time
that is intent to rob my muse from me
And causes me to lie here, impotent
Wondering how I can best share myself with the world
but this anxiety, and idleness cause me to keep living my life in vain
As much as my mind tells me to fight against it.
I walk along this morbid path
feeling ready to explode in the eruption of ideas
but instead scorch in the magma of these limitations,
my very essence burnt to a cinder.