What am I doing wrong?
Why do I get the crickets?
I know that I’m moving slow, all right.
I know that there’s more I should do.
But why, oh, why when I look to your notes
do I see everyone else mentioned but me?
Romance, and romance, and romance again
Yet you say you my work that you read
What do you like?
Why don’t you tell?
Where am I on the list of authors you help?
I know. Don’t bother to say – I’m down in obscurity.
I see success around me,
I’m told that “this is good”
I write the stories that find me
It’s like talking to the woods
I write what I’m given by my stories,
Exciting things I am told.
Yet, when I look at what is happening
I have nothing for all my toil
What is wrong with the way I write?
What is the reason I linger down in the dark?
Why can I not break out and be found,
I guess because my writing’s not a lark.
I cover hard topics,
Ones that are scary as hell
Feral children, social injustice
And the scariest one of them all – mental health
Note to self: You are strong
Note to self: You’ll get there
I just ask when will that day come
Am I wrong to wish for something big?
Am I wrong to want more?
Why do I have to beg and plead for your words?
Why do I have to watch others be praised first?
Oh, I know.
I’m lost in obscurity