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
