Ink of insecurity
A poet I aspired to be,
Yet words that mattered were in opposition with me.
A pen I could hold, a book I owned,
But the feelings were never my own.
A writer's soul is a shattered vase,
Tired from the pain and strain it etched to a lonely page.
However, mine was untouched, free
From the shadows that lurked behind a poet.
What do they have that I lacked?
An answer to that I craved so bad.
I am a terrible poet, with unpolished words
And simple thoughts.
I could never be equals with such greatness.
When they write, it summons gods.
When I write, I just wrote words.
I repeated them so often, they sounded so forced.
Shakespeare would tell me to give up,
Maya would say I've tried enough.
But my poetic dreams would come to a cease,
That thought makes my knees weak.
Writing has always been my release,
Yet being the best at it just seems too much.
Copyright © Kai Fali | Year Posted 2024
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