You sit there wanting to write,

The emotions have been flowing for hours,

Almost knowing the words you wish to say,

Yet, they fragment like petals of flowers,

Words don't come to you as easy as the rhythm,

Perhaps a musician would have been the better choice.

You wanted your words to tell a story,

Yet still be filled with emotion,

Although you find those words,

You lost your rhythm,

Perhaps a Motivational Speaker would have been a better choice.

If it was easy,

Anyone could do it,

They teach it as though they can,

Perhaps a Teacher would have been a better choice.

You wouldn't be you though,

Had you made another choice,

Your book sits unwritten,

A novelist wouldn't have been a better choice.

They expected you to know,

Exactly what you wanted,

To follow their rules for your art,

Painting only their mediums,

Still life movement left you starved,

But we still managed to play the part.

Those choices, you couldn't have made,

Much like is it a shovel or a spade?

You sit there with the blank page in front of you,

So you stopped it's mocking and moved to digital,

But now a greater enemy will taunt you,

That blinking cursor!

The cursor you wish you could curse,

Bring upon a pox-filled plague,

Take away you weary fatigue,

Just something to know what to write.

The troubles they don't see,

When they critique your masterpiece,

Pulling it apart, in-depth analysis,

Like they did with your 3rd year science project,

All of the failures and none of the successes,

Scientist was never going to be the better choice.

A Poet,

That was the choice you made,

Even on the darkest days,

Your prose wrapped you in comfort,

Giving you the outlet that would save your life,

Poetry in the form of suicide letters,

That was the best choice.

Your darker days began to warm,

The light trickled in verse after verse,

A Poet is who you are,

Don't let them tell you who you are.