January 24, 2019

 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. 





Share on Facebook
Share on Twitter
Please reload

Featured Posts

LUV WEEK 2020 [Let Us Vent]

January 20, 2020

Please reload

Recent Posts

January 14, 2020

Please reload