Grey Smudges and Coffee Stains

Grey smudges and coffee stains
Try as I may, running my fingers over the page,
I couldn't shake the imperfections that followed the blue lined path.
I meant the words more than the smudges and stains.
The words were choppy,
No flow,
Little rhythm,
Zero rhyme,
Or reason,
Just imperfections that clung to the crinkled white paper.
The abominations were made in pencil.
The movements of lines were composed by a tired high school student on the brink of a storm, the fall after a struggled climb.
The shakey lines made letters that, when strung together, resembled words that brought anyone’s IQ down.
Shakey lines, like breaths taken after a morning run,
Like my hands during a presentation,
Like the tremble in my voice as I speak with no confidence.
The grey smudges were left from attempts to erase any mistakes.
I should just erase the whole page,
Tear it up,
Throw it away,
Down, and down, and down,
Like the third cup of coffee down my throat.
I spill some and nearly cry as my sanity soaks into my disgrace of a poem.
Down and down,
My head hits the wood with a groan from either the table or me,
Must be the table, I have no energy.
I wonder if any accidental blood was now added to the collage of failure,
Then I remember that I don't care, at the same time I know I care too much.
Does that make me a contradiction of myself,
Just as much of a failure as my paper?
Torn up and discarded, my paper now lies on my desk, as I give up on writing.
This is my final resignation to the work of my heart.