The last click echoed in the room
the feeling of satisfaction growing with the fading sound
leaning back I scanned the screen
maybe, just maybe I wasn’t a bad writer after all.
It wasn’t ink and paper
but there was authenticity in my art
just me and my laptop together
a moment of solitude as I tapped out my heart.
simple words, no flowery additions,
broken sentences in imitation of poetry
just staggered lines of feeling
recorded with a history of changes and backspaces.
I was done and I was happy
but not for long.
A jagged green line highlighted an error
more grammatical than theoretical
but the irritation to fix it grew
as I scanned the pages once more.
Slowly, ever so slowly,
the dissatisfaction slithered in
what was I trying to say? who was I writing for?
‘what a pretentious piece’ I whispered to myself
what a sad attempt,
what an unfortunate occurrence
that I kept fooling myself.
Do you ever think you could publish this?
does this really stand out?
what a weak weak idea
what a disappointment, there was no doubt.
Sighing, crying, closing the page
I resigned to reading someone else once more
‘I’ll never write like that’ I whisper
‘I’ll never write at all’.