perhaps

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The world abounds with men and women, wielding pens mightier and wiser than mine. Their written word emotes life itself, while I produce that which is mediocrity defined. Day after day I struggle to find words with voice, while They speak the language that transcends all that is man-made. It is They who are read and revered, and They who are remembered even when men's memories begin to fade. Think not that I wish ill of them, or even envy them their skill. Respect and awe I bestow upon their work, and some hope that inspiration be instilled. Perhaps the future holds promise, perchance the days will come. I shall find the golden words that elude me now, and, God willing, even be read by some.