A wannabe writer sits at a table in an offbeat café

Writing her days away

She can’t ever tell if she’s good

She can’t ever tell if she’s bad

When asked

“I’m no Hemingway,” she’ll say

All she knows is the passion

The thrill in the creation of worlds

And the inherent romance of a story

Maybe that’s enough

Maybe that’s enough for now

Her amorous affair with the craft

The liberation in a gust of fiction

Through the eyes of another

They were masterpieces

They were gems

Yet she considered herself

A wannabe writer

Perhaps one day

She’ll say

It wasn’t all that awful

And her works were indeed beautiful

Till then, my friend

She’ll continue to sit at that table in the offbeat café

With a mug of Earl Grey

Writing her days away

Cover image by Thought Catalog on Unsplash