Sometimes,
I sit, legs folded,
Hands idle,
Thinking, “What have I done?
“I’m going to watch myself grow old,
“As I wait…
“For my story to unravel itself in my lap.”
Last summer,
Working my hardest,
I wrote twenty pages in two weeks.
Now, I’m lucky to write half a page,
In one day.
I wait for my story to unravel itself in my lap.
Thinking, comparing myself to Stephen King,
Who writes ten pages a day,
“How can I ever be a professional author?”
I sit still.
Motionless, laying in a pool of my own dread,
Watching-
The clock ticks by,
5:30 becomes 6:40
becomes 7:45,
Off to school,
Where I do nothing but think
Of my friends and enemies trapped
Inside my computer,
Waiting to escape the jail that is my story