Ego and pride.
Consciousness and insecurity.
Why must they clash?
Everytime I think.
I have the ego to believe myself.
I have the pride to defend myself.
I'm loud.
And I am proud.
And everyone should hear me.
I've got it all.
Nothing is out of reach.
But then why must consciousness exist?
Why must it whisper?
Am I too loud?
Is my voice hiding all the others?
And then insecurity burns.
It's like a fire.
A rabid bird in a cage.
Do you free it?
Insecurity holds me back.
Keeps me from talking.
From moving.
Where is pride?
Where is ego?
I want to say something about cursive writing (this might seem random).
I’ve seen articles saying that cursive writing is a “dead art,” that computers have destined it for oblivion and questioning whether cursive writing should be taught in schools now-a-days.
But if you plan to go to college - relearn it and practice it, because you’ll need it.
Random hot fact. The first time you have to handwrite a multiple-question essay test - where each answer requires five hundred to a thousand words (a written page) - handwriting, in block letters, is unsustainable.
Your hand will literally cramp up - dog, you’ll suffer, your essays will suffer and so will your grade.
Writing in cursive is faster than block lettering and with a little practice, it’s effortless.
My sister told me this once, and this morning, as I watched other students, one third of the way into our essay test, grimacing and flexing their aching hands - I just smiled to myself.
Yeah, you can thank me later.
The poetry section has a crazy short limit on characters so my piece had to be posted as a short story.
https://www.poetrysoup.com/short_stories/creeping_studies_9422
Thanks for reading!
I posted a new story poem - too long for here - look under short stories
Maybe this link will work…
https://www.poetrysoup.com/short_stories/lunch_crush_9333
When not slaved to school
work I rush to do all of
my favorite things.
All at once in a
mad multitasking-fun-storm
of pleasure-chaos.
I was just sampling
Spotify tracks, playing my
iPod and writing.
While backing up my
music collection, planning
dinner and sewing.
And I thought maybe
I should make more coffee and
print my homework.
This actual poet writes me silly poems.
He's there and I can't explain it.
A lifetime of experience and things lived I only imagine
and this actual, famous, poet writes me silly poems.
I wonder why me?? Why is he wasting time with me?
This sapient, hopelessly encouraging, ego-boosting poet
who writes me silly poems.
It's confusing.
My mind paints countless canvases of doubt,
like our connection is fragile tissue, perishable suds.
Surely one day I will find him bored and gone.
This actual, famous poet that writes me silly poems.
I'm the one they run from,
what do I do wrong?
I'm the one they fall for,
but never want anymore.
I'm the one they want at first,
but then things change.
I'm the one they want,
but then my heart breaks.
Is it my fault, or theirs?
Did I go insane too quickly?
Fall for me and see,
I won't go crazy; I promise.
Why do I keep remembering memoriez from my past?
Why do I try hard to make each moment last?
Why are there so many liez behind every mans eyez?
Why when I really love someone he grows apart and dies?
Why is it when Im writing I feel so alive?
Why when I see a pool of trouble I always seem to dive?
Why when I cant control myself I look at my hands and theres that knife?
Why do I feel Ill be struggling my whole life?
Why couldnt my life be simple?
Why do I suffer out of billions of teenagers?
Why do I hurt and my life never gets better?
Why do I gotta share all this through this letter?
Why do I dig up so many empty graves?
Why do I find myself writing for days?
Why when they try to play me they get knocked out?
Why when I change my direction I end up on the same route?
Why dont yall understand what Im about?
Why do I find myself writing and writing?
Why am I asking questions I already got answers to?
Why do I try hard to make things better?
Go ahead, sit down and Ill write you another letter!
Im writing this poem, it's not coming from heart.
Im writing from boredom, uhh.. where do I start?
My day has been boring, the night not looking too great.
My body's too tired, though my minds quite awake.
I slept all day long, it was an honest mistake.
I’m checking my email, no messages will come.
For it's late in the night, and no one is on.
And yet I keep checking, cause there always could be,
Another lame person, who’s bored just like me.
Boredom is constant, it must live in the air.
Cause its impossible to have fun, when boredom is there.
I think I am tired, cause this poem won't flow.
And I really am bored, which by now you all should know.
So I guess it's that time, I'll just go to bed.
No point of staying online, not much more to be said.
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