Writing myself in circular logic, I won't stop
It seems, until I take a plot on the writer's block.
Acknowledging disruption, however do I function
With the need to bleed truth like the consumption
Of reciprocation? If recognition is that addictive
Bet my diction stays cryptic right until I get it.
Sadly, with rhyme as the gimmick, I live trapped
With desires born to write more: I admit that.