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I lie awake at night


of what I might become.

Will I make it,

or will my aspirations dissolve

like the aspirin I constantly take

because all I seem to do is ache.

Pain has always followed me

like a shadow,

so i’m pondering

if I should just let go

of the dreams I have in mind,

I’m lying here thinking

Is it really worth my time?

Am I feeling this way

because artists struggle financially,

it's hard to get your pieces sold?

Writing is a dying art,

that's what I've frequently been told.

I turn on my lamp and try to get advice from the greats,

as I skim Shakespeare and Robert Frost,

I try to find my inspiration.

But as I read their work,

all dreams of mine seem to become blurred,

my motivation seems to be lost in translation.


I wrote this one night when I couldn't sleep, probably around 4 in the morning. As I tossed and turned, all I kept thinking about was my dream of being a writer. Negative voices kept replaying in my mind, telling me I couldn't do it, that I could never create something worthy enough of being published. When I feel like this, I usually avoid writing for a little bit, and take to reading instead. I let the words of other authors ease me back into my passion. I think every artist has their ups and downs with their craft. This poem demonstrates my feelings during my down period.

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