So I Sit Down To Write An Honest Poem

Another one of my poem’s from the poetry workshop by The Climber.

So I sit down to write an honest poem,
with bitterness running through me like blood
and it bothers me that my work
is not as good as the others.
Still I try to write and topics
course through my head- terrorism
and beauty and life and anxiety and
obesity and confidence and college-
and yet a single thought nags my mind
that I will never be as good as others,
my poetry (my pride) will never equal others
and that perhaps the
only thing I thought I was good at,
is just not enough.

All the time I thought that my inability
to talk and make friends
and dress to impress
and carry myself with ease and grace
and paint or sing or dance
or even make me worth remembering
was somehow compromised
by my ability (and a rather good one)
to write and impress upon, by my words.

All the late nights (and days and evenings and afternoons)
spent drowning in tears
and surviving on coffee,
the lofty pen saying things that the
mouth never dared to,
about betrayal and loyalty,
about depression and sadness,
about lies and truth
about sex and love,
about politics and drama,
about every damn thing that happened in life-
all those nights mount to nothing,
they were futile,
as useless as the nights I dreamt
of writing the most beautiful things in the world
(and the days at the park and evenings at the pub
and afternoons in classes).

And thus, with a feeling of self loathe
and desperation to create something
(hopefully memorable), I vent out
what is inside me, words slipping through
the tips of my fingers
into the keys, turning to binaries,
in zeroes and ones, appearing as I type
on the screen; the bitterness
diluting with every word that flows out
until all that is left is a somewhat emotionally
numb shell that hopes
this is perhaps enough to be
just enough, that perhaps
the naked, vulnerable front that has
been put forth is enough to be just good.

 

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