Would Be Writer

I hate myself when I’ve to use depth as a camouflage
to protect it from the ferocious waves of thoughts
I hate myself when I try to read but can’t,
and they think I love writing more
I hate myself when I have to reconstruct a sentence
to make it a fragment-free
I hate myself for agreeing with their fancies
when agreement is not a sole option
I hate myself for making excuses to hide my opinions
when I can settle for something else.
I push my brain to hold the reins:
Holding a pen, I try to write with ease and poise
but punctuation steps in,
ruling my heart and slaving the brain
I strive to expand the horizon of my thoughts
and they publish the dirt I create
I de-motivate myself by collecting the dirt
and they come and call me a ‘writer’–
a sarcastic remark is what I consider it
or a way to insult me by a lancet of exaggeration
unknowingly, I keep on racing forward
following the footsteps of my dooming fate.

2 thoughts on “Would Be Writer

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