Staring at my computer,

Hoping to get work done.

Ideas pop into my head,

And disappear as quickly.

After half an hour of staring

With loathing at the blank screen,

I begin to doubt

Whether I want to write at all.

Am I doing this for myself,

Or for the reviews?

Maybe for the satisfaction

Of seeing my work online?

Why should I sit here,

At the most obscure of hours,

For something that would garner

Little to no recognition?

Writing is for people like her,

With whom it flows spontaneously.

Writing is supposed to be beautiful,

Not dull and dreary.

All I am is a greedy pig,

Starving for more reviews.

Writing is not for me.

I sigh,

And continue to persevere.

Because I love it anyway.