The Passive Poet
Worthless worm, thy work is paltry.
Their words shatter the mirror of myself,
Courage and work ethic evaporate as
Shards of deafening comments sear them.
Cooking: sub-par. Scientific talent? Notoriously lacking.
Men and women stuff me into their expectations, their biases, their ideals.
Too outright, too introverted, too strong, too weak.
An empty head, a wandering imagination, drifting in and out of reality.
They created this realm. I never asked to be part of it.
The passive poet can only hide in a lone, dark room.
Shaky self-esteem, crippling anxiety, keeps thoughts and ideas from escaping.
I catch them. Trap them. Dash them on the page.