bearing fruit

to every other person receiving rejection after rejection, it’s going to be okay.

and i sit and i type,
my pen scrawls furiously across the page
but i don’t see it.

coffee after coffee passes my lips as the night draws close,
an arm around my shoulders begging me to rest,
but i don’t see it.

i say no to another friend and instead look to my diary,
an agenda of promises and future dreams,
but i don’t see it.

i sit at the foot of the tree of my labours and yet she bears no fruit.
i look up to her begging,

but i don’t see it.

and so I will wait, and work,
and write and hope.

so that one day when i look up,

i can see it.

Imy Brighty-Potts

Photo by Hope Shaw

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