Poems

The future.

The flat wooden boards strained
under the weight of my future,
so much I could almost see them bend,
so much I could hear them snap.

Unopened paint, and blank canvases
lay unused below the white desk,
rarely ever touched by bored legs,
much less my aching, tired hands.

The table had chips and cracks,
brought on by long months
and years of the frustration of failing
at something I didn't know if I wanted.

I asked myself why I wanted it at all,
why I didn't quit and just follow my heart.
Why the hours seemed so long before the books,
because they ticked away with a brush.

My mind told me it was future money,
My soul said put everyone in the wrong,
show them I could do it and I'm worth it,
My ego wanted revenge on its bruises.

But I knew with every fiber of my battered existence,
that all I wanted was to succeed at this,
because my dusty paint box would wait,
but this faith and validation would not.

I would have myself forever and ever,
but not these people around me,
who thought too lowly of me for happiness,
and not this chance at proving myself.