I am at a crossroads, and for the first time in a decade, I am unsure of the way forward. I have dedicated myself to the craft of storytelling with a persistence that should have borne fruit by now, yet despite my efforts, the “breakthrough” remains elusive.
My journey began in the days of CreateSpace, eventually transitioning into Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP). However, that transition led to a devastating setback. In an attempt to protect my professional reputation as an educator from a third-party publisher’s threats, I updated my metadata and pen name. Amazon flagged these changes as a violation of their guidelines and terminated my account on July 6, 2025. Despite a year of formal appeals and my commitment to publish exclusively as Nancy Ann Creed, the decision remains firm. After a decade of building a presence there, I am forced to accept that it may be time to let that platform go.
The pursuit of traditional representation has been equally exhausting. I have queried numerous agents for my fantasy series, The Shadow Realm Chronicles, my memoir, Birth After Miscarriage, and my poetry collection, Echoes and Whispers. The result has been hundreds of rejections and a haunting silence. The industry is notoriously risk-averse toward previously published material—especially work tied to a terminated account—leaving me caught in a professional limbo.
I recently moved my catalog to Draft2Digital, and while the platform is functional, it hasn’t yet bridged the gap between my dreams and my reality. For ten years, I’ve told anyone who asks that I’m “just waiting for my books to take off.” I find myself wondering if that moment will ever arrive.
The frustration is compounded by a marketing conundrum that feels like a foreign language. While I am confident in my writing and production skills, the world of SEO, platform-building, and social media engagement is a constant hurdle. I had hoped a traditional agent would shift this burden to a marketing department; instead, I am left to navigate it alone. Even high-effort attempts, like engaging on TikTok, have resulted in views but zero sales.
Despite the exhaustion of teaching 7th-grade math and raising a large family, I continue to explore new avenues. I’ve launched Patreon and Buy Me a Coffee to share “unpolished” drafts and short stories, hoping to find a community that appreciates the raw creative process. My primary motivation has never been purely financial—it is the desire for readers to lose themselves in the worlds I’ve built. Yet, I cannot ignore the financial reality: revenue would allow me to hire the professional editors and designers my work deserves.
Currently, I am struggling to find my creative spark. My goal of 3,000 words per week—tracked via Pacemaker—has become a source of guilt rather than motivation. Every time I fall behind the schedule, it deepens my exhaustion. I have poured my soul into six volumes of The Shadow Realm Chronicles, subjecting them to years of revision until every word gleamed. To meet that effort with soul-crushing silence is a heavy burden to carry. Some days, the temptation to retire my keyboard feels almost irresistible.
I am a teacher by day, but in my soul, I am an author. I am simply waiting for the world to hear my voice.
For a long time, I participated in the Goodreads book challenge, a digital ritual where you commit to a specific number of books to read over the course of a year. Initially, it seemed like a harmless way to track my progress and stay motivated. However, over time, the experience transformed from a rewarding hobby into something that felt more like a demanding second job. Instead of finding solace in the pages of a new story, I started feeling an underlying sense of anxiety every time I looked at my progress bar. The quantitative tracker, meant to encourage, began to exert an unhealthy pressure, making me feel that my value as a reader was tied strictly to my output rather than my engagement with the material.
The Numbers Trap
I used to use Goodreads’ book challenge where you set a goal for yourself for how many books you will read that year. One year I was planning on writing a middle grade book so I read a lot of popular and award winning middle school writers. These books were not long, so I read a lot that year, even manga, and I easily surpassed my goal by reading over 100 titles.
The thrill of that triple-digit achievement set a high bar, making me feel successful as a reader and a writer. However, the following year shifted focus significantly. I delved into epic fantasy novels, including The Wheel of Time, Game of Thrones, and rereads of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. Because these books are considerably longer and denser, my total book count naturally dropped. Despite the depth of the stories, the visual progress bar on Goodreads moved slower, triggering a deep sense of anxiety and a “what-if” mindset about my productivity. I found myself constantly checking my goal, feeling bad because I wasn’t on track to beat my previous year’s record. It felt as though the numbers were starting to matter more than the narratives themselves.
The Weight of the Epics
The following year, my reading habits underwent a significant transformation as I delved deep into the realm of epic fantasy. I immersed myself in sprawling series like The Wheel of Time and A Song of Ice and Fire (Game of Thrones), and took the time to revisit the foundations of the genre by rereading The Hobbit and the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy.
While I remain committed to my goal of writing middle grade novels, I took to heart the common wisdom that becoming a better writer requires being an omnivorous reader. However, I quickly discovered that fantasy epics demand a much higher time investment than middle grade books. For perspective, Stephen King’s The Stand exceeds 900 pages, and The Eye of the World—the first volume of The Wheel of Time—runs nearly 800 pages.
Because these massive volumes are considerably longer than the books I read previously, the quantity of titles I completed naturally decreased. This discrepancy triggered my anxiety; I felt a mounting pressure to read more, yet there simply weren’t enough hours in the day to maintain my former pace. I found myself constantly checking my reading goal and feeling a sense of failure because I wasn’t on track to surpass my record from the previous year. This shift in reading material forced me to realize that a simple book count was no longer a fair or accurate reflection of my intellectual engagement or my progress as a growing writer.
The Breaking Point
The pressure finally reached a breaking point when I had to be honest with myself about the profound anxiety these metrics were causing. Reading is meant to be a sanctuary and a source of inspiration, but the Goodreads tracker began to feel like a demanding boss, constantly reminding me how far behind schedule I was in my own personal life. When a beloved hobby starts feeling like an obligation or a race you are destined to lose, it strips away the magic of the narratives and the joy of discovery.
I realized that every automated notification informing me I was “five books behind” felt like a personal failure, a stinging critique of my productivity rather than a reflection of the reality of my reading life. In truth, that “slowness” was actually a sign of deep engagement with complex, lengthy epics—massive volumes like Stephen King’s The Stand, which exceeds 900 pages, or The Eye of the World, which runs nearly 800. By letting a simple number dictate my success, I was ignoring the growth and craftsmanship I was absorbing from these sprawling masterpieces.
The Contentment of “Goal-Free” Reading
Ultimately, I realized that the numbers were hindering my connection to literature, so I deleted my reading goal entirely. This simple act felt incredibly freeing, lifting a weight I hadn’t fully acknowledged until it was gone. I still value the community aspects of the platform, so I continue to use Goodreads to share my current reads with friends and maintain my own professional page as a writer, but without the shadow of a quantitative tracker.
My advice is to never let reading transform into a chore or a second job; it is a hobby meant to be savored and enjoyed on your own terms. Instead of chasing metrics, focus on the qualitative benefits: read alongside friends, engage in deep discussions about books, and simply have fun. By removing the pressure of the progress bar, you allow yourself the mental space to truly learn and grow through the stories you encounter.
The walls are leaning inward, though the level says they’re straight, And the air feels thick and heavy, like a physical, dull weight. It’s a static in the marrow, it’s a ringing in the ears, A list of “what-ifs” blooming into catastrophic fears. The door feels like a mountain, and the phone a jagged stone, The mind builds up a prison that it’s crafted all alone.
But the kettle starts its humming, and the clock begins to chime, The world doesn’t pause its spinning just to give me extra time. So I breathe a shallow rhythm, count the floorboards near my feet, And find the tiny pocket where the fear and duty meet. It isn’t that the shaking stops or shadows go away, It’s the shaking hands that reach out to begin the work of day.
I carry it like luggage—bulky, frayed, and overfilled, Across the bridge of “must-do,” where the panic isn’t stilled. I take a single, trembling step, then find the strength for two, Doing all the things I need, while the fear is coming through. For courage isn’t silence where the anxious thoughts are gone, It’s the shivering soul that tells itself: regardless, carry on.
The lines were drawn in quiet ink, A map of “yes” and “stay,” I feared the bridge would surely sink If I turned the other way. I held my breath to keep the peace, A ghost within the room, Fearing that my own release Would seal a friendship’s doom.
I thought the cost of being me Was more than they would pay, That if I spoke, they’d turn and flee And leave me in the gray. But then the weight began to gall, The “jokes” that left a sting, The way they made me feel so small While I gave everything.
So I stood up, a sudden flame, And watched the masks descend, I finally spoke my truth, my name, And waited for the end. They met my strength with cold disdain, With anger and with slight, They saw my joy as their own pain And walked into the night.
And in the silence left behind, The truth began to bloom: The friends I was so scared to find Were never in that room. For if a boundary breaks a bond, The bond was but a thread; Of people who are truly fond, There’s nothing left to dread.
If standing up meant losing them, I lost a heavy chain, A false and hollow stratagem That only offered pain. The ones who leave when you grow tall Were never yours to keep; It’s better that the shadows fall So you can finally leap.
Today, an overwhelming and profound wave of melancholy has utterly washed over me, an oppressive heaviness in my spirit that I find myself utterly unable to pinpoint to a single event. It’s a feeling that wasn’t a companion when I first woke—the morning offered a brief, fragile peace—but it has crept in stealthily, intensifying hour by hour, settling into a deep, pervasive gloom. I have been meticulous in adhering to my self-care regimen, ensuring I took my necessary medication precisely on schedule, as a fortress against such emotional sieges. Yet, despite this discipline, my entire emotional landscape feels profoundly unbalanced, listing dangerously under an invisible, unbearable weight.
I suspect, with a certainty that settles like a cold, hard stone deep in the pit of my gut, that this debilitating feeling is intimately and agonizingly tied to the agonizing, unyielding reality of my life’s work: my books. For ten long, solitary years, I have poured the very essence of my soul, my passion, my time, and my sanity into the writing craft. I hold an unwavering, deep-seated conviction in the quality of these narratives; I genuinely believe the stories I’ve woven are good, the characters I’ve breathed life into are complex and utterly compelling, and the worlds I have spent years mapping are fully realized, rich, and immersive. I have subjected them to a relentless process of revision, editing, and polishing, going through countless drafts—so many that the files are a testament to tireless dedication—until every single word, phrase, and paragraph gleams with the light of its final, best form. And yet, the result is the same soul-crushing, deafening silence: the sales figures remain utterly stagnant, a flatline of disappointment, and despite every pitch at conferences, every networking attempt, every perfectly crafted query letter I send into the void, I cannot secure a literary agent to champion my work. The industry feels less like a gate and more like an insurmountable, monolithic barrier of granite.
In a desperate bid to break this cycle of obscurity, I tried a new, modern approach just yesterday. I dedicated hours to conceptualizing, filming, editing, and promoting two separate, high-effort videos on TikTok. The immediate, initial response was encouraging; the videos accumulated a respectable number of views—a decent, tangible sign of engagement, even—but that fleeting digital attention never, not once, translated into a single, concrete book sale. My deepest, most fervent dream is not merely to write in my spare moments, but to be a full-time, self-sustaining author. I yearn, with a fierce, almost painful intensity, to devote my entire life and every waking thought entirely to the craft: to weave grand, ambitious tales without the pressure of a day job, to harness my imagination without reserve, and, most profoundly, to guide readers not just to see the worlds I’ve painstakingly built, but to inspire them to fall utterly, hopelessly in love with those worlds. I want my creations to transcend the page and become real, resonant, unforgettable places for them, a sanctuary they return to.
Some days, the sheer, unrelenting weight of this struggle becomes too much for my spirit to bear, and the temptation to simply surrender to the overwhelming discouragement, to pack away my keyboards and retire my ambitions, is almost irresistible. Today, truly, is one of those agonizing, critical days where the desire to quit is a powerful, beckoning siren.
In these moments of profound doubt, I reflexively seek validation in the people I know and love. Friends and family have generously read my manuscripts, and they offer deeply kind and reassuring praise, assuring me over and over that the books are genuinely good, compelling works. But I am painfully, acutely aware that their judgment is inevitably clouded by their affection for me; they are not objective critics in the unforgiving literary marketplace. What I truly, desperately need is validation from the outside world—from agents who see commercial potential, from objective critics who recognize literary merit, and, most importantly, from complete strangers who are moved to buy the book, read it, and then feel compelled to enthusiastically tell others about the worlds I have built.
At this precise, debilitating moment, staring at the blank screen and at the evidence of a decade of intensive, solitary work that feels completely invisible, I am at a complete, agonizing loss. I honestly and truly do not know where to turn next or what practical, effective action to take to break through this impenetrable, maddening wall of obscurity and unread silence.
The sheer volume of my output only compounds the sense of despair: I have completed a six-book fantasy or science fiction series, a standalone science fiction novel, a deeply personal, heartbreaking book documenting my miscarriage, countless poems, and I am currently in the process of reworking and perfecting a children’s book. I am staring at this monumental body of work and feeling the crushing question: how much more is the universe asking me to do before I am deemed worthy of an audience?
Here is the first chapter of The Shadow Realm Chronicles: Maeve, which I hope will speak for itself.
Chapter 1 The Great War
Many years ago, darkness tore apart the worlds. They called it the Great War, for it was massive and involved all the realms of each world. Enemies on either side grew their armies for battle with heavy casualties. New allies formed out of this bloodshed while old ones crumbled.
The world of the Faye changed forever as their king descended into madness. His name was Julian. He once was a loving ruler, but those times were long gone. The pages written of him now are full of rage, blood, and hatred. Hatred for his children who grew to love others and revolt against him and his rule. Hatred for his wife, who fled with his children and hatred for all the realms that were not under his rule. Julian needed his children because they were powerful. Each one controlled one of the four elements: wind, water, earth, and fire. Even though his children hated what he had become, they remembered the good in him and were perhaps the only ones besides their mother who did.
Marius, the leader of the vampires and Jonathan, the ruler of The Shadow Realm, fought alongside Julian, but they did not trust him. Each of these three men was scheming against each other as they all wanted to come out the victor.
Jonathan had many plans and plots forming in his head, but they all revolved around Maeve. Maeve was a fairy, but she lived in a quiet world. The one world that was protected from the Great War. Jonathan didn’t care what Julian or Marius did as long as it didn’t interfere with his plan but interfere was what they did best. Jonathan had great plans for Maeve and her family, but he knew little of her connections to Julian’s family.
The Great War might have been over, but another one was looming in the distance, and it all began with a lonely mother named Maeve.
Chapter 2 The Lonely Mother
Maybe the stress of having a baby was getting to Hunter. He never had much attention from his own family, and when he met Maeve, she gave him so much love and attention. My life was better without Alex. He is stealing Maeve from me. Maybe he thought having a baby wouldn’t change things, but it did. Maeve was always taking care of Alex. Feeding him, bathing him, changing him, and burping him. When she wasn’t caring for him, she was telling Hunter the things Alexander did. I hate this. I lost my wife to a baby.
He lied to Maeve and told her he had to work on a case. Sometimes he said he was meeting colleagues, other times clients. It didn’t matter because he wasn’t meeting anyone.
Hunter went to a bar. He sat looking at the mirror across from him as he drank. There must be more. My life should be better than this.
That night Maeve was making dinner as normal waiting on Hunter. She sighed as she stirred the pot of soup. Where could he be? She always wondered where he was. She never believed his lies. Another meeting. He must think I’m stupid. Her heart sank as she thought of what he was doing. Maybe he found another woman. Could he be cheating on me? The thought killed Maeve. She bit the inside her lip to stop herself from crying. Where did I go wrong? Is it my fault?
Alex started crying. Maeve turned the stove off and removed the soup from the heat before tending to Alex. “Is someone hungry?” she asked, as she prepared a bottle.
She heard a sound coming from her front yard. It was as if the wind was carrying her name. She couldn’t turn away.
Maeve walked to the door and opened it as Alexander continued to cry. The wind carried her name through the trees, and it was getting closer and closer. Then it stopped. Maeve woke from this trance standing in her doorway. She wondered why she was standing there. She shook her head, feeling confused and bewildered.
Alexander’s cries continued to grow louder. Maeve realized he must have been crying for a while by then and wondered why she didn’t attend to him sooner. She closed the door and locked it. Then turned to Alex. “Shh, Mommy’s here.” She picked him up and rocked him for a moment before sitting on the couch to feed him.
Alex cooed in her arms as she fed him. Maeve couldn’t help but smiled as he yawned in her arms, but Maeve was far from happy.
“Oh, Alex, what did I do wrong?” She woke up every two hours to care for Alex. During the day, she tried to clean and cook. She went through life in a trance. Is this my life cleaning, cooking, and caring for Alex? Is this my life? Does Hunter still love me? Maeve cried as she held Alex. As much as she tried to fight the tears, she couldn’t. She knew she was losing Hunter. He was slipping away from her.
The voice came back again. I must be crazy. The voice was so soft and sweet. It beckoned to her to come.
“Maeve. Maeve. Come, my love,” the voice called to her.
Maeve picked up Alex and set him back in the bassinet. She then walked to the door and opened it. The night air hit her face, but it didn’t wake her from her trance. The voice was closer now, and it continued to come closer as it traveled through the air. The closer the voice got, the colder the air became.
A milky mist formed along the tree line. Maeve watched as the mist began to form what resembled a man. He moved toward her. Run, Maeve. Close the door, lock it. Scream, run, Maeve. But she didn’t do any of those things. Instead, she had the strange urge to please this man. The closer he got to her, the more she wanted to please him. A smile came across her face. He’ll make everything better. He will make me happy. I can make him happy. Why am I thinking about these things? Run, Maeve!
“Hello, Maeve,” he said, with a sinister smile.
Chapter 3 Marius
After a while, Maeve could speak. “How do you know me?”
Marius took her hands in his. “They wrote your name long ago, my dear. You will be a great power. One people will fear.”
Maeve flinched as he held her hands; they were freezing. She could see her breath but not his. Was he breathing? He smiled, and to Maeve, his smile was captivating. She smiled back.
“Come, Maeve. You are an especially important woman.”
Maeve didn’t think she was important, so the words made her proud. She wondered how she could be important, but it didn’t matter. She loved the attention and care he was giving her, but it was more than that. Maeve had no control. Alex cried, and she needed to care for him. Her heart knew what she needed to do, but her body didn’t move. Inside she was crying for her son, but there she was standing with this man. I need to get to Alex, but why can’t I move?
Her hands trembled in his. “Please, my son.”
Marius smiled. “You won’t care for him much longer.”
He moved her hair away from her neck and kissed it. No! I love my son.
Maeve moaned as he kissed her. It had been so long since Hunter was affectionate to her. He never touched her anymore. She wanted to pull this man close. She couldn’t understand the connection she felt to him.
He whispered, “Shh, save your heart. There is another who longs for you.”
Maeve didn’t understand, but she woke from her trance. “Alex!” She knew she needed to turn and run from this man.
As Maeve turned, Marius grabbed her arms and pulled her towards him, causing bruising on her arms. This time he didn’t kiss her neck. Instead, he bit her. He sank his teeth into her neck and feasted on her blood.
Maeve screamed and tried to fight. As the pain of the bite wore off, her body filled with warmth. She moaned as her body ached for more. The pain was erotic and sensual. She didn’t understand how, but she craved more of it. He continued to drain her as she held onto him.
Marius laid her on the ground as he drained her. He stood over her and admired his work as he wiped her blood from his lips. Maeve laid on the ground, motionless. Her eyes were wide open as she stared off into the woods. Her skin was white and striking compared to her bright red hair.
He knelt next to her. “I will call upon you again to finish our business, my dear.” With that, he left her and walked into the woods.
Maeve could see and hear everything that was going on, but she couldn’t move. She watched as Marius turned into mist, and then the mist floated into the woods.
I built a bridge of patient, weary years, A silent span of quiet, chosen words, The mortar set with dried and vanished tears, A testament to battles, not rewards. My hands I offered, strong and open wide, To hold the weight of your erratic sphere, To stabilize the chaos you supplied, Yet only met a storm, a boundless fear. My effort was but dust upon the breeze, Against the wind of your profound unease.
When your world tilts and loses all its grace, The guttural cry of “holy hell” defines The atmosphere of this abandoned place, No longer haven, but a field of mines. A sudden, unexpected fire starts, Consuming fragile things that stood its test, Leaving behind a jagged, broken heart. With cruelty, you push me to the crest, The edge of sanity, my failing might, Expecting me to hold while you ignite.
I tried, desperately, to be the ground, The immovable foundation in the shake. I absorbed the shocks where steady peace was found, Withstood the tremors for your troubled sake. But now the space between us is a void, A profound, echoing, desolate expanse, Where kindness’s tender seed has been destroyed, And understanding lost its saving chance. Now only the choked vine of unyielding rage, And your consuming need across this stage.
I’ve studied your map of pain for far too long, Memorized the texture of each emotional scar, Anticipating where the wound would throng, An unwilling cartographer of your war. But in that process, I forgot my name, Eclipsed by roles I was compelled to fill: Your punching bag, the target of your flame, Your safe harbor, your shore against the chill. But that era’s ended, clarity now bright, I won’t be your refuse, your emotional blight.
The door to this shared history is heavy now, Weighted by expectation and old despair, But it is closed, with a final, solemn vow. The work I poured is starkly laid out there— Not as a failure of a loving mind, But as an investment that was misguided, deep. I failed no duty, I was not unkind, I simply chose myself, the promises to keep To me. I recognized the point of no return, And in that closure, finally, I learn.
The silent, turning tide of life Has stretched the maps we knew, The seasons shifted, ground gave way, The ties between us drew
Slowly apart, a creeping drift. Demands attention, energy, Like water through the sand, Leaching the solid ground of time.
There was a time, not long ago, We were each other’s stay, The anchors holding fast and sure In storm of early day. We held the secrets, deep and bright, The wisdom time had wrought, Our days marked by the shared, full laugh, The tapestry we caught—
Before the world turned bright to cold. I feel the sharp ache of the miss, The ease we used to share, Where we could simply be, no need For any word or care. That ease is gone; the quiet now, The profound, long silence cast, Has tragically become the sound Our relationship held fast. When air grows thin with struggle’s breath, I seek those mirrored faces still.
I’m reaching back through the gray blur The passing years have made, Refusing that demanding life Will keep the things that fade. The miles that stand between us now Are lines on charts that lie, Meaningless compared to the depth Our history lifts high. Our memories, no fading echoes— But brilliant, fixed stars in the night.
With will and concentrated hand, I clear the tangled brush, Desperate to find the path again Beyond the isolating hush. A clear, resounding call I send
Into the lonely void. My friends, I want you now to know: I’m here, steadfast, unalloyed. I want us back—the kind of bond That bends but will not break, No matter what the wind may bring. It is the time our circle wakes.
The empty space of connection, the gathering, Pulses with a vibrant energy I only observe. It hums with plans already made, A detailed itinerary, a map of places where I do not go. My position is fixed: outside. I don’t move; I only watch the colors of the evening fade From my window, a slow drain of warmth and light. My world is contained, defined by sitting in the light of what I know.
The knowledge I possess is isolating, sharp: That laughter sounds much louder through a wall— Magnified by the barrier that separates their joy, A painful noise. And conversely, Silence is a heavy thing to wear, A cloak woven from unsaid words. It presses down, making breathing difficult. So, I maintain a silent vigil. I wait for pings, for any word at all, A simple notification, an anchor thrown, To prove that, in their minds, I’m standing there.
The name of “friend,” I embraced fully; We call them friends; I gave the name with pride, A sacred title for those to whom I opened life. I shared my secrets, listened to their own, Believing in a mutual exchange, a balanced scale. But now I wonder, standing on the side, A silent observer of their motion, If that foundation was solid. The crucial question takes root: If I am liked, or simply “loosely known.”
A chilling suspicion whispers of self-doubt: Is there a secret vote I didn’t see? A quiet pact to leave the chair unfilled? Or is the truth more passive, more insidious? Or is the lack of room inside the spree The consequence of slow emotional detachment? It feels like The way a dying fire is slowly stilled, The warmth receding until only ash remains. The question I need to ask is too large, too sharp to utter; It stays in my mind, a burning inscription in the dark: Do I have friends, or people I just know? Did I misjudge the reality of the bond? Did I mistake a flicker for a spark? The uncertainty is exhausting, forcing a decision: Is it my cue to turn around and go?
The core of the issue is heartbreaking simplicity: For if they wanted me, they’d find the space, They’d actively rearrange the elements of their plan. They’d reach across the gap to pull me through. This is the ultimate loneliness I face: There’s nothing lonelier than a familiar face— A face I thought knew me— That looks at everything—but never you.
A flicker in the digital sea, A ripple in the ocean vast, Announced a message, unanticipated, free, A bridge to years and moments past. No expectation, no alarm, A serendipitous, sudden light, A warmth against the day’s long harm, Dispelling shadows of the night.
The sender’s name, a long-lost friend, Appeared upon the silent screen, A cherished sight without end, Recalling what had been. A powerful, unexpected force, Across the void of silent years, Washing away the quiet remorse, And vanquishing old, silent fears.
A wave of joy, a deep embrace, Surged through the heart, dissolving time, As memories rushed, swift in their chase, Like a rushing, vibrant tide sublime. Laughter shared, a youthful sound, Secrets told in hushed reply, A core of trust that could be found, A sturdy thread beneath the sky.
Across the miles that held them fast, The vital connection instantly made, The digital form, a vessel cast, Where friendship’s enduring flame was played. Passionately kindled, burning bright, Unafraid of intervening years, A testament to affection’s might, Dispelling all the rising tears.
The quick exchange of grateful hearts, A quiet acknowledgement of grace, The inner vision of eyes that starts, Smiling across time and space. This sudden reunion, taking flight, A potent reminder, clear and true, Some bonds are not defined by sight, But by a spirit time can’t undo.
We walked the same path, pen in hand, Mind alight, a shared commitment’s sign. Pilgrims in a lonely, distant land, Chasing the same bright star, divine. Our bond, once firm, was forged by toil, Ink-smudged paper, the screen’s harsh glow, A hopeful process on a hungry soil, A private weight the outside doesn’t know.
But when the harvest comes, a sudden wrench, The seed you sow brings fruit upon my ground. The garden blooms, across a mutual bench, But only your name is on the flowers found. My careful work, the agonizing hours, My every effort, tragically the same, Is rendered Invisible, stripped of all its powers, Swallowed whole by an eclipsing fame.
They gather ’round your posts, a swelling tide, A deluge of bright approvals, warm and fast. Endorsements flow, they cannot seem to hide The joy they feel that you have made it last. I am a shadow in this scene so bright, An old contact they vaguely knew, unheard. They click the heart, basking in your light, But never glance upon my waiting, silent word.
Our dear ‘mutuals,’ who claimed a deep-felt tie, Are quick to share your links, to elevate. They laud your verse beneath the public sky, While my own craft lies in a silent state. So forms the question in my empty chest: Is it the work, the art’s intrinsic worth, Or merely the loud acclaim they love the best? The rising star, or the quiet flame of birth?
If friendship is a mirror, clean and true, Reflecting back the efforts we impart, What does their universal silence do To my ignored, distant, lonely star? If you are seen, and I am a pale ghost, Haunting the edge of your success and grace, Who is the friend, and who is merely the host, Ignoring the guest who waits within the space?|
The heart grows bitter, chilling doubt takes root. They loved the writer, the idea of the name, And not the soul, the person who bore the fruit, In the quiet, solitary, unlit flame. The bonds we trusted, once so strong and high, Were not of iron, nor loyalty’s hard line, But paper, flimsy, easy to pass by, Disposable in the blinding fire of your shine.
