Rhymes Unread

I've tried to write this poem two or three times now
It doesn't seem to get any less hard
I'm not as great of a poet as you might think
I'm not a great wordsmith like many a bard
The truth is I just write how I feel
Letting my emotions mingle with ink
Sometimes the poems are masterpieces
And sometimes they stink
And many times I crumple them up
And toss them on the floor
And wonder why I bother writing
If my ability is so poor
But with each flawed page I crumple
And toss away in a ball
There's another feeling left untold
Another unexplained tear left to fall
And so I'd come to the conclusion
That I'll continue to write what I feel
Because it's in this way
That I can express and heal
and feelins are a precious thing
Though over-plentiful they seem to me
They are the things that make me human
Though painfull they often seem to be
But what's more painfull is the fact
That I fear to share these lines with you
And they speak only to the page upon which they live
Never anyone but myself to view
Or into the fire they consume themselves
As the passion consumes myself within
For it's my unexpressed feelings that burn
And that no one has read them, that is the sin