Young Writers Society

A/N: First poem I wrote in forever. Please go easy on me.
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I’m in a group of writers.
They are all better then me.
All of them.
I stand back and just watch the talented.
Others are amazed.
I with envy.

I stand small and puny compared to the rest.
I will never be good enough for them all.
I will never.

A punch in the gut is the critics.
A pat in the back is the pity.
For I will never be good enough.

Thesauruses.
Dictionaries.
All scanned below me with intensity.
I will never remember these words. Never.

Gorgeous descriptions of scenery.
Of the moonlight and the stars. Always with the bright stars.
Of the boys eyes.
I will never string together a beautiful sentence. Never.

I find myself in a new group of others staring me down. The artist.
Their paintings show winds blowing leaves past the fall scenery.
Pencils knowing where to go.
Coordinated to create perfection.
I will never create perfection. Never.

I buy the book.
Titles say learn to draw. My eyes in pain. Staring back from book to pencil.
My hands create unflattering lumps. Lines of garbage.
I crumple all the sheets frustrated.
I will never draw that man in the book. Never.

Ideas always in mind, vivid and clear.
As lovely as the art I’ve witnessed.
I pull my sketchpad out.
Hours pass. Smears from eraser marks stuck across the sheet.
I throw the pad to the ground frustrated.
I will never get it right. Never.

Talent is craved within me.
I want to others to be proud of me.
More importantly I want pride in myself.
My goals hang above my head; slowly becoming distant memories.
I watch them fade, tears welling in my eyes.
All those dreams escaping into the land of never.

I stand in the corner, a talented woman in front of me.
A idol in my presence.

She tells me a secret.
“You must never give up. Never.”