You could have done something great,

cradled the English language in your arms

and molded it into a picture-less art.

 

You could have crafted something beautiful,

fleshed out characters from thin air and

breathed life into them with the energy of words.

 

You’ve collided headfirst with the world,

seen how it beats in disillusionment,

and now your words are dying

at the pit of your stomach.

 

The pen feels like arthritis in your hands.

Your poems are collecting dust.

Now you struggle to form sentences that

once set the page on fire.

 

You could have been remembered

as that someone who makes

people feel, not just with their hearts,

but with every nerve in their bodies,

that someone who colors the world with writing.

 

It’s been too long,

far too long,

and you’ve spun your years out

into emptiness,

choked thrice on the bitter taste of

fear and failure and decided

it was too much to bear.

 

When the earth swallows you whole,

just know that you will not leave a mark.

 

Your name will not spread across the world.

 

You will not be remembered as a great writer.

 

You will not be remembered at all.