I wanted to be a writer

I should be asleep. I have to be at the funeral home in less than ten hours. This isn’t good writing, I’m just sad. I think it’s time to face the inevitable end of my phrase as a writer. I have nothing left to say, my words would just be a waste.

This really isn’t poetry or even good writing of any sort. It’s just when I have feelings the words come out in strange stanzas and demand unnecessary enter hits. Like I said, I’m no writer.

I saw a poet with my name.
She was good.
I was upset.
My name is the one thing I have.
That, and my writing.
She took both.
She was a better poet,
A better Nikita.

Second guessing colleges,
Again and again.
Maybe I should go for pre-med
My dad says I can’t,
I’m going to be a writer
I have to be a writer.
My eyes start to cry as
I tell him I can’t.

A story inside of me
Spins within my skull
Hits the ears, creates
Pounds and thuds.
Crashes around
But it’s nothing more than
A restless ruckus.
Nothing’s tangible anymore.

Characters wave as they
Take their bags and leave
The apartments they called
Home within me
In their suitcases they
Throw their plots and scenes
There’s nothing left to
Fill my stories

With blank pages
empty stanzas
unused notebooks
and the disregarded choice
of major/minor: English – Writing
I have eliminated “writer”
from the title I have
given myself
Now I am just Nikita, Human

I have to give up this part of me
There’s nothing left to write
Nothing I have to say
I can’t believe
I ever thought
I’d make
a living
of this
someday.

I’m not going to be posting anymore. It’s not like I’m posting regularly now, but this is my goodbye my pathetic blog note.

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