I who waited everyday
Counting numbers
Even just one would come astray
Hoping my story would be appreciated
Even it was cast away
Like an old book hidden under the bed
I know I am no par with other stories;
Beautifully said
I am one in a million
Who would ever notice my introspection.
Sometimes I would be filled with enmity
Because I failed unknowningly
It's not easy to write...
words composing thousands of letter
They say I'm a really good writer
But every day the blood gushing from my nose becomes redder.
Every night
I wouldn't burn my brows
For the reason I am not studious
But instead I burn papers
Crample them
Trash my poetries
Turn them into ashes
Those were stories I've written for days
If I were to cut the chase
I'd sincerely say
Without the slightest disobey
—I was afraid of rejections
The highest expectations.
I wish they would know that this heart
Whose made to write poems
Struggles to be recognized
But not perfect to the bones.