I am such a goddamn defeatist.
I am such a goddamn defeatist.
I want, more than anything, to be able to write. And I do. I write. I write all the time, but do I ever let anyone read it? NO. No I don't. Why? Because I'm too afraid.
I don't want anyone to read it, because, deep down inside, I'm too insecure. I am so jealous of other writers that it makes me sick. But I don't know why I'm jealous. I know I could be as good as, if not better, than they are.
What's my problem? I give up before I even try. I write, then I shred it and toss it in the refuse bin. I'm never good enough for MYSELF. I hate everythig I write.
I took Creative Writing (before that son-of-a-bitch failed me for "missing too much class," even though all my abscences were from my being in the hospital) last semester. On the one occasion when we shared out poems with the class, mine was more than well-recieved. People loved it, even though I spent all of 15 minutes writing the piece of shit. They fussed over me and had ZERO criticsim, and all I heard was how good of I writer I was. I don't get it, because I'm still afraid.
I hate the process of asking anyone I admire to read anything I've written. It makes me so nervous, like my little shaking bleeding soul is laying supine on this paper, waiting for the reader to just tear it apart.
And then there are the people who obtain mild success with writing poetry... they get so goddamned pretentious about it, even though their work isn't exactly the best I've ever read. That's the whole problem. I get so envious it makes me sick.
I want people to tell me I am a good writer, sure, but what I really want is to be able to quit this cycle I get myself into. It's as if I have two of me inside my brain, one creating and the other destroying that creation. I feel like I abort my ideas before they have the chance to grow into anything beautiful.
How do I stop? What do I do? Just let everyone read anything and everything I write, regardless of how I feel about it? I can't do that. My standards are entirely too high.
I am such a goddamn defeatist!
Ok, here's something I found the other day. I was cleaning out my dresser and found a poem I'd written in April of 2004, after Mike broke up with me. I should have thrown it away then and there, but I thought the emotion behind the words was worth saving the poem over. Here it is. Tell me how much you hate it.
Sometimes I watched the stars at night,
Prayed they didn’t devour you,
suck the poison out of your veins,
wipe your pretentious pulp
out of the corners of their mouths,
blush with the deceitful delight
of having dined on my deceitful once-darling.
Yet those leaded lies of yours
lie too deep in my veins,
at home in my hemoglobin,
they urge me:
“Forgive.”
But I never forget
it was you who
drank my determination,
supped on my suppleness,
inebriated himself with my innocence-
You were a vampire to my Valkyr,
and I had nothing left
when you left me.
Keep weaving your half-truths: Soon
you’ll run out of air; your collapsed
licentious lungs will be the trophy
of my triumph. You were wrong
again; I always win.
I will be there, head high,
arms crossed, and legs as long
as ever, laughing when even the stars
reject you and God spits out
your sour soul.
Weak, huh? I don't know if I should save it or not. I've only saved four out of the approximately 400 I've written. How's that for being a defeatist?
In other, more pleasant news, we looked at an apartment today. It was very nice, and not exactly "in" town, but close enough. The light fixtures are silver, which makes me smile. I hate gold.
I'm sipping a cherry limeade at the moment and pondering my future. It looks good.
I want, more than anything, to be able to write. And I do. I write. I write all the time, but do I ever let anyone read it? NO. No I don't. Why? Because I'm too afraid.
I don't want anyone to read it, because, deep down inside, I'm too insecure. I am so jealous of other writers that it makes me sick. But I don't know why I'm jealous. I know I could be as good as, if not better, than they are.
What's my problem? I give up before I even try. I write, then I shred it and toss it in the refuse bin. I'm never good enough for MYSELF. I hate everythig I write.
I took Creative Writing (before that son-of-a-bitch failed me for "missing too much class," even though all my abscences were from my being in the hospital) last semester. On the one occasion when we shared out poems with the class, mine was more than well-recieved. People loved it, even though I spent all of 15 minutes writing the piece of shit. They fussed over me and had ZERO criticsim, and all I heard was how good of I writer I was. I don't get it, because I'm still afraid.
I hate the process of asking anyone I admire to read anything I've written. It makes me so nervous, like my little shaking bleeding soul is laying supine on this paper, waiting for the reader to just tear it apart.
And then there are the people who obtain mild success with writing poetry... they get so goddamned pretentious about it, even though their work isn't exactly the best I've ever read. That's the whole problem. I get so envious it makes me sick.
I want people to tell me I am a good writer, sure, but what I really want is to be able to quit this cycle I get myself into. It's as if I have two of me inside my brain, one creating and the other destroying that creation. I feel like I abort my ideas before they have the chance to grow into anything beautiful.
How do I stop? What do I do? Just let everyone read anything and everything I write, regardless of how I feel about it? I can't do that. My standards are entirely too high.
I am such a goddamn defeatist!
Ok, here's something I found the other day. I was cleaning out my dresser and found a poem I'd written in April of 2004, after Mike broke up with me. I should have thrown it away then and there, but I thought the emotion behind the words was worth saving the poem over. Here it is. Tell me how much you hate it.
Sometimes I watched the stars at night,
Prayed they didn’t devour you,
suck the poison out of your veins,
wipe your pretentious pulp
out of the corners of their mouths,
blush with the deceitful delight
of having dined on my deceitful once-darling.
Yet those leaded lies of yours
lie too deep in my veins,
at home in my hemoglobin,
they urge me:
“Forgive.”
But I never forget
it was you who
drank my determination,
supped on my suppleness,
inebriated himself with my innocence-
You were a vampire to my Valkyr,
and I had nothing left
when you left me.
Keep weaving your half-truths: Soon
you’ll run out of air; your collapsed
licentious lungs will be the trophy
of my triumph. You were wrong
again; I always win.
I will be there, head high,
arms crossed, and legs as long
as ever, laughing when even the stars
reject you and God spits out
your sour soul.
Weak, huh? I don't know if I should save it or not. I've only saved four out of the approximately 400 I've written. How's that for being a defeatist?
In other, more pleasant news, we looked at an apartment today. It was very nice, and not exactly "in" town, but close enough. The light fixtures are silver, which makes me smile. I hate gold.
I'm sipping a cherry limeade at the moment and pondering my future. It looks good.