What becomes of words that yearn to take flight?

The feeling when one has a passion for creating art but their own talent and skills get in the way of creating.

What becomes of words that yearn to take flight,

to soar, unbound, into the light,

when hands and voice betray their plea,

silencing whispers that long to be free?

They cage the fire, quench the spark,

and bury the words in shadowed dark,

hiding them far from the weight of blame,

tucking them deep, away from shame.

Did Orwell, Shakespeare, or even Balzac,

ever feel their own minds, souls held them back?

Did Goethe, Brontë, or Sylvia Plath,

feel helpless, like me, on a faltering path?

What worth is talent with no guiding flame,

a hollow gift, unlit by name?

What use is passion, wild and free,

in hands unskilled, like a storm-tossed sea?

A silent symphony, a canvas unfilled,

a dream half-born, in shadows stilled.

Yet still we create through anguish and pain,

for words unspoken leave a deeper stain.

Author's Note

English isn't my first language