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Effort

I rejected form. I rejected meter. I rejected editing. I rejected reading. I'm a flash in the pan. I'm fueled by emotions. I'm emboldened by scars. I'm challenged by time. I wonder how far I could go if I took the time to study. If I sat down and honed my craft and took pride in my words. I'm certainly no prodigy. Every verse came at a cost. Perhaps I'm finally paying the price by stagnating in my growth. I let my fingers write. My mind is actually blank. It's just a silly white canvas that never blossomed. I never once toiled. I never once struggled. If it was hard I just gave up and deleted the verse. I'm told I write prose rather than true poetry. Maybe I don't understand what the difference is. I never had any talent. Writing was my safe space. Now I have to wonder if it was ever safe at all. Admittedly I rejected effort. I didn't want to actually try When the minimalist approach seemed to work so well. I'm not a prodigy. I'm not a genius. I'm not gifted. I'm not published. I dreamed of the glass ceiling but I never dreamed of breaking it. Maybe I'm just damned to always look through it and see writers much more dedicated than I. I made omelettes without breaking eggs. I created houses with no foundation. I sang songs without reading the lyrics. I baked cakes without a recipe. I don't want to sound entitled but my writing deserves to be better. In twelve years I should have accomplished more than using these poems as tissue paper for tears. In 2007 I was just a kid writing five to ten poems daily. That effort got me noticed and I shared my verse with crowds. I was driven by ambition and fueled by emotion. All I wanted was adulation when all I had known was the gallows. This is the last flash in the pan. Fleeting emotions can't guide my pen forever. I do not know what the future holds but no longer will I be complacent. I am a writer. I am a poet. I am a lover. I am a fighter. This is the swan song of my old poetic style. With eyes on the horizon My pen will ever be furious.