I have reached the point where I am afraid to write what’s on my mind because there is the lingering thought of perfection. I cannot write poems as drafts; I don’t want the judgments of others to slip between the unfinished cracks in the lines.
And so I cannot write.
I hold back the words that might be beautifully unpolished, the raw true thoughts as they fall from my mind and through the keys, the pencil, like tears.
And so I cannot write.
I want the world to only know the finished pieces, the final touches made. It is, after all, the best reflections of my work. Am I right?
And so I withdraw the first draft, save and and cannot share. The thoughts held so close, so real, so hidden. So is it the best reflection of me? Or are you looking in the mirror with me, as I force you to see what I’m seeing.
I cannot be afraid to write about myself with the brunt and real honesty that rubs skin raw. I cannot be afraid to share the poems, the prose, right from brain cells to paper.
I does not matter if others like or understand…does it? Can’t I still be a writer, even if I’m writing for me?
Do I have a voice, even if no one is listening?