i’ve seen the masterpieces, okay? i’ve seen the simple beauty words smashed across a page can create. and i know this poem is nothing compared to it. know that these words won’t change anything. so why am i working so hard for this?
because i’m just screaming into the void, right? letting my skin start to wrinkle as i melt into the cloudcover. leave behind the corpses of my words for some random stranger to uncover, fifty years later.
and i’ve seen the lucky ones, okay. and i’m not going to win the lottery. not tomorrow, not today.
and i’ll say it before. and i’ll say it again. and i’ll throw my last ounce of hope right. down. the. drain.
So… oh boy, I don’t now if I’ve written about this before, but I have the biggest issues with imposter syndrome–honestly, one of the main reasons why I write under a pseudonym., although I’m thinking about, like, maybe maybe maybe letting go of that soon. I feel like maybe I’m ready to take that next step–soon. I don’t know how soon, but it’s something that’s been on my mind of late.
Anyhow, imposter syndrome. Basically, I am a hot mess of oh-my-gosh-I’m-not-good-enough. It’s not specific to writing, I literally have thought this about my formal anxiety diagnosis from a psychiatrist seconded by two different therapists. I get imposter syndrome about literally every aspect of my personality, is my point–if you can call anxiety an aspect of my personality, which is really a whole other topic. But with writing, it’s really bad. Because no matter how hard I try, no matter how many hours of sweat, blood, and tears I pour into what I do… I still feel like a fraud. I still feel like I don’t deserve it. It’s really exhausting, to be honest.