Unread and Unravelling

Five years I’ve written, five years I’ve tried,

each word a wound I’ve never quite dried.

My stories sit silent, my poems decay,

no one to read what I needed to say.

The pages I publish drift into the haze,

lost in the sea of forgettable days.

I once thought my passion would carry me through,

but what is a flame when no one sees its hue?

Each verse feels smaller than the one before,

each hope grows weaker, I reach no shore.

I question the worth of the words I’ve bled,

when all that they are is quietly dead.

Perhaps I should stop, let the silence remain,

end this cycle of effort and pain.

Yet even as doubt takes root in my head,

I still chase the ghosts of things left unread.