Every writer feels the sting of failure and the desire to succeed. Here's a little something for all aspiring "artists" out there, who wish to break the imaginary bonds that hold them; to bust through the paper ceiling and hook up with that elusive key to fame and fortune.
Chopping below sod,
far into lifeless ground,
seeking fertile soil for
this shadow of a life.
Dirt flies up,
spraying spots of clay
against the prospects in my life.
That which I've sought,
a future of fantastic tales.
To give the world
the image of my mind's eye.
To flee this place
of back breaking labor
upon the barren land.
Pen in hand, keyboard nearby,
my days are spent,
straight through midnight,
working the fields of ingenuity,
mired in the soil of soliloquy,
fighting through fleeting desire.
All the while knowing
the sun must owe me
at least one precious beam.
I've been awaiting
an acceptance of grand proportions,
but I can't seem to
get past the critics' notions.
Someday they'll see
my talent succeed,
and their opinions won't matter
to me.
Please, dreams, be true to me.
Don't pass me by on your way.
I was never meant to live in desolation.
Don't keep chasing me away.
No comments:
Post a Comment