I don’t think I am made for crafting wit,
or I am simply not designed to compete.
Each returned manuscript,
is a blow to my spirit,
Now I am buried deeper in a pit.

I don’t need you to be polite and kind,
just be frank that I am lagging behind,
that I don’t have skill so grand,
or even the basics I still cannot find,
just tell me honestly that my rhymes are bland.

I wish I could just give up; oh, I would.
But I am unable to withhold this flood
of words that run in my blood.
The lines just keep pouring inside my hood,
they refuse to let go, as if they are glued.

Oh, but solitude is where my crafts find their medium.
I’ll let my thoughts be textualized freely; I amend.
The world need not see them, nor pass my penmanship on judgment.
I’ll keep them as keepsakes, memories that need not blend.
And may this last stanza become my reminder, amen.