I don't know if I can call myself
a writer.
My book has only sold one copy
that I know of.
I haven't written so much as
a paragraph in over a week.
My work got rejected by another
magazine.
Ideas flood my mind,
only to recede like the tide
before a storm.
My stories are at a standstill,
held hostage at gunpoint
by my anxiety.
I have short bursts,
but why don't my moments last?
Maybe I'll never be a writer.
Or at least a successful one.
I'm open to negotiating
a new purpose,
a new future,
a new life that makes sense.
YOU ARE READING
Caffeine and Me
PoetryA collection of poetry ranging from brain farts to exploring why I bother getting up in the morning. Most likely there is some form of caffeine to keep me awake (or alert) enough to type my thoughts out regarding my depression, struggles within my d...
