it comes after several months of waiting

to realize they never loved your words after all

and the art you used as a form of escape

was never good for anything

i thought and i thought that maybe

everything i went through

would have amounted to something

that the art that came out of it

will have made it all worth it somehow

though i had the brain of a scientist i had the artists' soul

and perhaps i've been too long out of practice

but the rejection upon rejection

of the things that used to make me happy

when they told me that maybe

deep down this is what i was born to do

was only to keep me happy in the moment

and now, when i try and do anything with it

thinking that maybe there's more than

numbers and discoveries 

that there's a soul and beauty deep down

they look at me and laugh

"you were never a writer, dear

who in the heavens told you that?"

i was never a writer

it was never my calling to begin with