I Learned to Rhyme. I Forgot Why I Wrote.
I used to think learning to rhyme would make me a better writer. I thought if I could just master the right patterns—couplets, quatrains, sonnets—maybe my words would finally sound like something worth reading. I spent hours staring at blank pages, hating every line that ended with "cat" or "hat." I’d write and erase, write and erase, until the only thing left was the pressure in my chest.
I read poems that twisted language in ways I couldn’t touch. I tried to force my own words into those shapes, hoping I’d feel proud, or at least relieved. But every time I finished a draft, all I could see were the seams—where I’d bent my meaning just to make the rhyme work. It felt fake. Like I was chasing someone else’s voice, not my own.
Sometimes I wonder if I ever liked writing, or if I just liked the idea of being good at it. I know I’m supposed to say it’s about the process, or the beauty, or whatever. But mostly it’s about the ache of not measuring up. Of wanting to say something real, and only hearing echoes of other people’s lines.
I still keep a notebook. Most of it is crossed out. I don’t know if I’ll ever write a poem that feels like mine. But I keep trying, even if the rhymes never come.
#WritingStruggles #Perfectionism #CreativeBurnout #Education
