Writer’s Remorse. A poem.

I watched other writers type away at their keyboards and gain internet fame. I jealously coiled and spat at their efforts.

Why not me, I wondered

Why not now

But I was too quiet.

My heart not really on the figurative paper, but almost.

Because isn’t this what is required of you?

To lay your beating heart onto the granite floor, holding your breath, hoping for acknowledgement, praise or sublime refuge.

Thump.

Gulp.

Gasp.

Hiss.

Never promised the fruits of our labors,

and yet we toil.

Stroke by stroke.

Dot over dot and cross over cross of the proverbial

t

There seems there is no other way.