All those days just trying to get out of my own head
I’m greedy like this.
With the comforting lies I repeat to myself
“This doesn’t matter as much to anyone else.”
I know it isn’t true or fair,
But with everything I see, read, and hear
“My teacher made me do this.”
And
“I thought it’d be easy.”
Words like those hurt, and they slander.
But what right do I have to judge?
If you can’t try to win, then this must be a hobby.
But ranking matters to those who writing means something.
No, I’m sure it is possible to live in interest or appreciation.
But to someone young and foolish,
Writing has been that last thread
From which I hang.
It’s a delicate place to stay.
But I fought to be here and I don’t want to leave.
I live to write, and I write to breathe.
I want to live off the words I write and that’s why I know
My writings need to be recognized.
It isn’t enough for me alone to bask under the words I write.
Someday soon I’ll need to open my world a little wider,
And all those precious hopes and broken thoughts
Will be trampled on and picked to pieces.
But peace is more than I can afford
Because I need to write.
Please prove me wrong.
For me, “hobby” disrespects the friends and advocates,
My closest confidantes,
Who led me slow and scared
From all those dark and dangerous places,
The closets and forests in my mind.
Yes, I take it seriously
Because I’m writing fearfully.
I love this so much.
I don’t want this to end.
I’m fighting for my future.
Please try to understand.
These words are not beautiful.
They do not win contests.
But I’m trying so hard,
And I wanted to be honest.