I have never been one to call myself a “writer” nor did I consider writing a talent until I realized the people around me felt the same towards me and other aspiring “writers.” It felt as if our writing was not considered anything special because our names were not considered anything special. We were not famous poets or published writers so why should they care? It felt as if fame equaled to talent. This poem summarizes all the self-doubt I have ever had.
I cannot count the number of times that doubt has taken over my mind, my heart, my eyes, my right arm.
I cannot remember how long it took for me to feel free within me – not actual freedom- I have not escaped. I am still bound my chains of my own making; the keys dangle in front of me, but I do not reach for them. i do not deserve to, they tell me. They keep me stationary. They let me out for arts and crafts, but I just twiddle my thumbs to pass the time – oh, look, it is happening again. It happens every time.
To the writer inside, why-
do you degrade yourself or should I say I? yes, why?
do you hold back from impressing others? yes, why?
do you bend at others’ comments and the lack thereof? yes, why?
I am no one – not a famous writer or poet.
I cannot talk about sadness and make it sound perfect even though it is not.
My day is not as inspiring or exciting as it was in my mind.
I want to write, but lack the will or the strength to try. My muscles feel sore from the weight of being empty.I only have admiration for those who have communicated every thought I had wanted to have; every idea I had wanted to have been called brilliant and clapped for.
Why am I unable to come up with my own metaphors, pull open a drawer and bring out a pen and paper? I have studied the types, the technicalities and the classics, but I find myself at a loss for words, what is the point?
Just because I can put a couple of phrases together, slap a title on it and call it a poem does not mean I am a writer. I have no basis for receiving that title or being granted the honor.
To the writer inside, keep self-deprecating – you are right to do that.
To the writer inside, keep pulling on your hair to try to get something out of your mind.
To the writer inside, do not stop writing because you have no done anything that qualifies as that.
To the writer inside, is this what you wanted?