Reading Prohibited

Waiting for a winner,

On tenterhooks, I'm pacing.

Predicting the chances,

Would I be the one? I'm asking.

So many chances squandered,

Stories written, not read, forgotten.

My so-called friends say it's a waste of time.

No one wants to hear

These family stories that just make you feel sorry for me,

About lost love, or clinging to some past hurt.

But I write it all down,

These honest little asides to my major story.

The main thing for someone else

They grant it freely, based on name and presence.

A collection of badges, more valuable than money,

Placed on a straight path, unlike my own, which is tangled.

While I produce thousands of words daily,

They receive rewards for writing only a few in an entire month.

Why do I remain?

Suppose everyone urged me toward damnation?

Perhaps I do it not to drown in animosity and remorse.

It is they who should regret, for never knowing me,

Attributing all their flaws to me.

I was never the person they perceived.

How could they, if they never sought understanding with humility?

My true self remains unseen by them.

Distance has kept them apart, leaving what?

Anticipating battles I will most likely lose.

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