I was
Supposed to be good at it.
The words were supposed to flow,
Unconditionally. I was supposed
To make grown adults huddle
Under their bedsheets, booklight
Spreading a faint halo over the
Pages in a way they hadn’t done
Since they were a child.

I was
Supposed to be a storyteller;
A way for people to feel heard
As they escaped from a world
They wished they didn’t know—
But, now, at least, understood a
Little better. I was supposed to. . .
I was supposed to. . . Did I
Overestimate myself?

I was never
A prolific writer, brimming with
The prose that made the final
Page of a book feel like a funeral,
But I thought I could craft people
That resonated, that seemed real;
It seems I was wrong.  

I was
Supposed to realize what I wanted

To be a long, long time ago, and
Now. . . Well, now, I'm only
Supposed to move on.