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.