I’m not a poet

Yet I feel pressured to be one.

I feel like I need to be a triple-threat,

a screenwriter, poet, & novelist

All mashed into one;

Because then maybe my odds

Of becoming published would

“double”

To 2 percent;

Yay.

 

I hate the idea of luck;

It’s like I’m in a dream being drugged

And I have no control over what comes next.

No matter how hard I work,

it doesn’t matter.

The world might not know wizards and magic

And redheaded rat owners

If luck didn’t put JK Rowling on the map;

 

And if it isn’t luck,

I’m left facing the fact

That maybe it’s just me.

Maybe after all this time,

I suck at writing

But my passion

Blinded me,

Clouded my vision,

Made me think I can turn a heartbreak from my life

Into something as interesting

As a dragon chasing a wizard on a broomstick.

 

The critiques say romance can’t have conflict

That it’s boring

I guess being blindsided by love,

 & loving someone who doesn’t love you back,

& getting cheated on,

& feeling pressured to date,

& ruining a friendship because of

Hidden unrequited love,

Topped with a big fat divorce

In a ridiculous cherry costume,

I guess it isn’t marketable.

Not action-packed enough?

 

Making people feel vulnerability

isn’t entertaining unless it’s

filled with white lies,

Just like Christmases are worthless

Without snow.

Since when is real life

boring?

 

My book means something to me,

But feedback makes me want to

Murder it with red permanent marker.

 

How do you know when it’s good enough

If it’s possible there are a million dusty manuscripts

Written by undiscovered authors

Who will all die of oblivion,

If they haven’t already—