Life: A Writer’s Purgatory
I’ve survived the labyrinth of trial and error,
and have concededly accepted the nomenclature
of a writer in either timid self-proclamation
or through overly proud avail.
Though the words do not yet slide
off the tongue in quite the way I’d like,
once or twice,
believed the words to be true.
I stagger, rejection mocking me,
wallowing in self-pity,
as I envision with such banality
the proud smirk of those who believe they possess such talent.
But without this treachery,
one could not be a writer;
the all-encompassing double-edged sword.
It is a rare skill
to strike a sensible balance
between hope and lack of delusion.
Those foolish enough to herald self-righteous decree
and clench tightly to a proud belief
that there is no room for improvement in their work
have already failed.
These fools will “comfort” you‚
that I know for sure.
A special kind of compassion served with a hearty dose of pity and a sprinkle of condescension.
I often wonder what this bliss must feel like;
pouring our souls into the world,
yet never truly at peace.
We crave notoriety; yet live as hermits.
We want to possess humility, yet feel deeply special;
like no one else in the world.
And with that creeps in undeniable tragedy;
the weight of our pain intends to break us.
A catch-22 it is;
our troubles arrive as if they were a magnetic force.
But if backed into a corner,
a writer will forever choose tragedy.
That is our cross to bear.
Yet in the slight moments when we rise to a purer place,
we settle upon the realization
that through every teardrop,
the vast feeling of emptiness
must be worth it after all.
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