I am a poet, but not the kind of poet you read about in books or hear recited on stage. I’m a struggling poet, the kind that nobody knows about, and nobody cares about. I’ve been writing for years, pouring my heart and soul onto paper, but it seems like nobody is interested in what I have to say.
I didn’t choose to be a poet; poetry chose me. From a young age, I was drawn to words, to the way they flowed and danced across the page. I found solace in the rhythms and rhymes, and the way they could express the deepest emotions that were too difficult to articulate in any other way. I wrote poetry in secret, hiding it away in journals and notebooks, afraid to share it with anyone else.
But eventually, the urge to share my words became too strong to ignore. I started submitting my poetry to literary journals and contests, hoping for some recognition or validation. But rejection after rejection followed, each one stinging more than the last. I was told my work wasn’t good enough, that it didn’t fit the publication’s aesthetic, that there was no space for my voice.
Still, I persisted. I kept writing, kept submitting, kept hoping that one day, someone would see something in my work. But as time went on, the rejections piled up, and my dreams of becoming a successful poet began to fade. I started to wonder if I was wasting my time, if I should give up on this passion that had consumed me for so long.
But I couldn’t. Poetry was a part of me, an extension of my soul, and to abandon it would be like abandoning a part of myself. I knew I was never going to be a famous poet or make a living off my writing, but that didn’t matter. Writing poetry gave me a sense of purpose, a way to connect with myself and the world around me.
So, I continued to write, even when it felt like nobody was listening. I wrote about the beauty and pain of life, the moments that took my breath away and the ones that left me shattered. I wrote about love and loss, hope and despair, and everything in between. And even if my work never reached a wide audience, I knew that it had value, that it was a testament to my existence and my experience. Being a struggling poet is not easy. It’s a constant battle between hope and despair, between the desire to share your work and the fear of rejection. It’s a lonely journey, one that requires immense dedication and persistence. But for me, it’s worth it. Because at the end of the day, I am a poet, and I have no chance of being something else. Poetry is in my blood, in my bones, and in my soul. And no matter what the world may say, I will continue to write, to pour my heart onto paper, and to share my words with whoever will listen.