The Novel I am Writing

I am writing a novel.

I haven’t written a single word,

But it has begun.

I’ve swallowed it;

I need to push it out.

It’s going to come out distorted,

But it has to come out

Or I’ll choke.


Tonight is strange

There’s that vague pain again

Clutching my chest with bony fingers

I feel tonight has infinite possibilities

But here, in my room,

Infinity is, yet again, too far away.


I erase the pain of the unwritten novel

And the night that quietly beckons me outside

By promising myself another night like this

Though you know, as much as I do,

How rare nights of infinite possibilities are.


Yet I sit in, coward I am,

Drenched in a sense of unworthiness

No amount of smiles can erase.

I lay bare tonight, and I’d rather not see

What I look like.


The novel mostly will never get written

And its pages will choke me

As my body folds in slowly

And crumbles, the delicate pages

Crying out through my wrinkling skin.


When I die, will I be remembered

As a person who loved words

But feared rejection so much

She never touched her beloved?

That is the saddest epitaph.





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