Looking back at my scribblings,
I weep tender tears,
The ink vents at me,
It chastises me,
Denouncing my attempts at artistry,

I’m a sham,
I’m farcical,
A fake,
Trying at a craft that mocks my toils,
Playing at aptitude,

I can’t argue,
The ink preaches to my choir,
The writing only reflects my own thoughts,
In all of my inadequacy,
My words prove vacuous and dry,

The ink speaks with my voice,
Knowing I’m bound for inconsequence,
Only a charlatan,
Yes indeed,
But one that shall keep trying.

Comments
  1. Carol anne says:

    a wonderful poem! Your not a sham at all your talented!

  2. I agree with Carol Anne. You are gifted, indeed!

  3. Cassa Bassa says:

    Third that! You are talented.

  4. shauna says:

    There are days I feel very similar. You are not alone. And most definitely not a sham.

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