Non-Believer

I gave up on writing long ago, Realizing my poetry to be nothing more than a young child’s Desire to please, To be recognized for being the very best at something, Anything. Gold star, kid. Since, not a lick of good came from it. Jack of All Trades strikes again. Mediocrely, of course. So here be I, brooding over this graphite-stained page, waterboarding the empty page with stale coffee and brutally berating My half-chewed writing utensil until something awe-inspiring Should blossom forth… A losing battle if I ever fought one. A rough draft of my bewildered could-have-been talent (ha-ha) smeared Across one of many blank sketchbook pages, Devoid of the ever over-spilling Cute Mind (Beautiful is just beyond me, thanks.) that My inner-child likes to toy with. Maybe I’ll draw a Gold Star over This and pretend I’m definitely a winner. I gave up on writing long ago. It never cared for me, nor I for it. Funny that literature and I should be such good bedfellows. Scandalous, don’t you think?