We're not alone in this.
I hope we all keep writing, because maybe someday, a century or two from now, people will finally understand.
For the Writers Who Struggle
Yet another paper bites the dust
I fling it away in disregard
It does not achieve its purpose
Its effort, all for naught
When I show writings to Important People
They shrug and walk away
Like it doesn't mean a thing.
Or I walk into a library
And run my fingers over rows of books
With untouched pages and
Spines not yet broken
Has anyone ever read these?
Or will they all be passed over
Like they're somehow insignificant?
I open one of the books
It is happy by this and rewards me
With its brand-new, bookish smell
And the tragedy is
The author spent so much time
Pouring his soul into this book
But nobody's reading it, anyways.
And all the novels and poems
Floundering around in limbo
Their fibers, delicately woven
Into something the author's proud of
Their own story, worth telling
Figurative blood on the pages
And nobody thinks it's worth reading.
So I will go back to my room
Sit at my desk and stare
At all my hopeful novels
All my unacknowledged poems
And wonder, is there a point?
Am I writing anything worth reading?
Is it all for naught?
But then, something bright
Something beautiful catches my eye
A compilation of Dickinson's work.
And as I write this, I am listening to the soundtrack
From Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby,
And I remember something
Something indescribably important.
Their works, shoved aside
By basically all who read them
And there are so many more -
Writers who wrote beautiful things
And romanced language in such a way
It's a shame they weren't recognized.
So much beauty, pushed away.
And so, I'll keep writing
Because even if no one understands
Maybe someday, a child
Will be playing in the attic
And find something his great-grandmother wrote
C. P. Morrow, and all her stories
And maybe people will finally understand.