A Writer’s Failure

I found this post on an old website I maintained… I vaguely remember writing it and it still bears significance today. There are bit’s I would change with a good edit, but I have left it in its original form. It’s at least eight years since I wrote it. This is the post, in full:


I wrote this in a Chemistry lesson and now have doubts about the title…but I thought I’d leave it as is… This is just the way my mind was flowing after being told I was basically a crap and conceited writer. And yes… I know most of the rhymes are imperfect…


What makes us writers?
What defines the art
Of putting words on paper
And telling tales of the heart?
What is is that divides us
From those who read instead?
Is it just a natural thing,
A difference n our heads?
Once I was a writer,
Once I spoke my mind,
But never with my voice
And also not with signs.
Instead, it was in ink
On paper that once was white.
I never made it clear but
The stories showed my plight.
I strove to survive
Each and every day.
My voice spoke through the words
That shaped my stories’ ways.
I never thought myself great,
But I do love what I wrote.
Some say it’s conceited
And gave me not their vote
Of confidence, but chose
Instead to cast aside
The work that I had loved
With hatred and with spite.
I know it isn’t good,
It’s not in the same class
As those great bestsellers,
But I thought that I might chance
To write more and more,
To write every day.
Writing is my life.
Must I cast life away?
It is a cruel dilemma,
For writing keeps me sane.
But can I only write
For only my own gain.
Is there any way
We can truly comment on art?
Some may hate and destroy
While others take it to heart.
Why should I make this choice
So difficult to make?
But I have and now I ask:
Is it my choice to make?
Who really is it writing?
Is it me or someone else?
Once I have got going,
I think of nothing else.
And who is it I write for?
Is it honestly for me?
Or maybe it’s for those
Who take and read with glee…

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