To my present state, I have to walk away.
I cannot portray an artist where there are none left today.
If all my writings were so great and really helped in relating,
Then I would have my friends and lovers, but instead I’m always waiting.
Nothing’s ever came of them, they never made my point.
I’ve still lost the love I had though I tried with a poem.
And though I made a mistake to love, I never really understood the lines
That I not only cared for them, but that without them I would fall behind,
And arguments that came between the lines we have shared,
Were times I tried to apologize, but never found they cared.
So if they really loved my writing and said I was expressing myself,
Why didn’t it ever mean anything? It never really helped.
So what’s the point of going on and writing as though I’m best?
It never stopped them from leaving. Instead I failed the test.
So to you all I must protest to the accusation
That I am such a perfect writer when it’s all imagination.
It never made you really believe that I ever really tried
To give you everything I have. I hated that you’ve cried.
So if I can’t express myself, or at least make you believe,
I resign from writing at all. The profession I now leave.
11-21-1990 Thursday, Thanksgiving Day
Written by Gail Brookshire