I thought at one time that I could write good poetry. I thought that I could be good at something other than cheerleading or swimming...In short- something that I could take with me after my years of highschool and college. I could have write all my life if I chose to, yet I wouldn't ever have to oppurtunity to be put in my short skirt and jump for joy at a touchdown when I'm at the age of 40; I'd have a stroke if I tried to compete in the 100 meter breast stroke or 500 meter free style when I started to lose my hair and gain little crow's feet at the corner of my eyes.
But who was I kidding? Actually believing that I had what it took, the talent to be wanted.
It's sad to recall everytime I put down the pen after I wrote what I thought to be a masterpeice, I'd read it over and realize that not even a prestigous editor from a poetry magazine could help what I just threw together in a "fit of inspiration". I'd secretly hide it away in a neglected, dusty box under the bed, or crumple it up in disgust; complete embarassment to have envisioned seeing those silly words on a best-selling peice of paper.
::One Can Only Dream::