As my futile attempt to write a poem comes to a close,
I wonder what the point is
What is the point of all the wasted hours,
all the heartache,
and all the metaphorical blood?
Who am I even writing for- myself or others?
Are my anguished hours necessary for another’s one moment of recognition?
And really, how deep can that recognition go,
Because no matter how hard I try,
no one will be able to know what I was thinking
when I wrote down my heart
for them to trample underneath their unforgiving criticism.
wasted hours when we could have been......thinking.......never futile for if your words inspire only soul.....soothe one heart.......cause one smile.....then you have been a success.....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Very true Lynne, almost...too true :)