This is a poem about how easy it is to loose faith in your own abilities when you’re surrounded by successful people. I personally sadly often stop practising my skills because of the inevitable truth that there is someone who will always be better at it.
I pick out my favourite font and align my paper and pen in perfect dimensions; precisely measured angles barely meeting
yet I find myself sitting in front of an empty page, the never ending ticks of the clock echoing in my head.
Today I feel empty.
My head feels dull, discouraged.
Envy flows through my veins, avoiding contact with my desire to appreciate the unfamiliar.
I see the good and want to be better, should I not aim for supporting the matter?
Endless possibilities are mocking me, famous this, successful that
bowing down to normality and tipping my hat
alliteration is my main priority, yet my writing lacks melody
there is no heart, no raw edge to this piece,
creativity? the failure, it yells, tempting me to leave.
and after all,
maybe this isn’t me.
