All That Pains Me

Last night, I was drifting off to bed and I was thinking about what being a modern writer in today’s world even means, and whether I want to be a writer anymore. Yet here I am, the next day, putting in work and pounding away at the keys all morning. I believe there are to many people who flood the market. It’s like yelling into an empty soup can that lost its string to your only friend that was listening. Just to continue this simile, and turn it into an analogy,  I feel as crowded as the cans of minestrone in at the  grocery store. Who still eats minestrone soup?

I’m thinking of letting up on pressing down the keys, but I more poetry to write, maybe a novel to put up on the screen. I just cannot seem to quit for the life of me and I know that I will never stop. I think I lack the motivation to care for my own words. Once they are out there, I forget them, I care not for what I’ve written, I love what I’m going to work on next. What I’ve written tastes stale. Some leftovers in the refrigerator taste better the next day, which is how I feel about my writing, but only a few days later. If I give it a week or a month and come back and visit something, its rotten. Magic in my words is extremely temporal.

To give a quick summary of the feeling, I guess I’ll express it with more words?

Writing Pains Me

It’s so natural to wish to be heard

To keep at a fruitless endeavor

Until it devours your soul

Becoming what you wish

Only to realize that you

Are so amiss

So aloof

So lost in

Wandering.

 

 

Yours truly,

@Tdowko

 

 

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