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.