So was red
I want to dance. I just feel so heavy. He's moody--and I never know what to think about what he thinks of me. Sometimes I just want to ask. I know I won't get a straight answer. He seemed interested in my talk of "a boyfriend." He always seems interested in eavesdropping on my conversations with other people. I don't know how to be natural when I talk to him: I don't know how to say what I mean.
I taught a lesson in class--with Robert Hass, Frank O'Hara, and E.E. Cummings. I just get the feeling that he must think I'm retarded. I don't know how much to trust him.
Why does my poetry professor insist on nitpicking my poems more than anyone else's? No one says anything about my poems: "I love that image." "Inventiveness is most important in this poem."
I feel like a half-teacher to everyone--I'm placed on this pedestal that I want to hack into oblivion. I just want to learn, grow. I'm sick of being judged on terms that I never asked to be placed within. Just because you want to scrutinize me down to some "judgable" level, doesn't mean my work is non-publishable. She wrote about falling, with nothing keenly original, and it's praised more than my "indecipherable/"I'm losing touch with this meaning" poetry. It means so many things at once. Do you always have to walk away with a supreme consciousness of everything? Is that even possible in life? And isn't poetry supposed to be some kind of reflection of life?
I'm so sick of being taken for granted. Everyone thinks I know I'm good. As if it's something you can really know at all. As if supposed "greatness" doesn't need reassurance--or work! Or maybe I've just bloated myself into nothing special. Which is more likely. Everyone always gets the initial idea that I'm intelligent, learned--and then I crash once they realize I'm human. And flawed.
I never pretended to be someone remarkable. I'm sorry you all were deceived.
I taught a lesson in class--with Robert Hass, Frank O'Hara, and E.E. Cummings. I just get the feeling that he must think I'm retarded. I don't know how much to trust him.
Why does my poetry professor insist on nitpicking my poems more than anyone else's? No one says anything about my poems: "I love that image." "Inventiveness is most important in this poem."
I feel like a half-teacher to everyone--I'm placed on this pedestal that I want to hack into oblivion. I just want to learn, grow. I'm sick of being judged on terms that I never asked to be placed within. Just because you want to scrutinize me down to some "judgable" level, doesn't mean my work is non-publishable. She wrote about falling, with nothing keenly original, and it's praised more than my "indecipherable/"I'm losing touch with this meaning" poetry. It means so many things at once. Do you always have to walk away with a supreme consciousness of everything? Is that even possible in life? And isn't poetry supposed to be some kind of reflection of life?
I'm so sick of being taken for granted. Everyone thinks I know I'm good. As if it's something you can really know at all. As if supposed "greatness" doesn't need reassurance--or work! Or maybe I've just bloated myself into nothing special. Which is more likely. Everyone always gets the initial idea that I'm intelligent, learned--and then I crash once they realize I'm human. And flawed.
I never pretended to be someone remarkable. I'm sorry you all were deceived.