I’ll probably get carpal tunnel by the end of the year,
Between the essays, drafts and projects, my poor wrists are already six-feet under,
It’s okay though, I don’t like writing anyways.
My sister, the golden child of the family is a different story,
She writes in the mornings, evenings, probably even in the shower for all I know!
She can procure pages after pages of her stories in what seems like only minutes,
And here I am, sitting in a dim room dumbly staring at my laptop,
(I have written a whooping 88 words in the last hour).
It’s always comparing, looking at who is better, who is the ‘winner’,
Overachiever vs. the Underachiever
It is pretty obvious, you probably know that already,
I’m the Underachiever, thank you very much.
Maybe that ‘unarchiver’ vibe is getting to me,
That’s why I don’t write, don’t even try to compare,
It’s probably also my crippling anxiety and horrible grammar too,
But that’s besides the point.
Don’t get me wrong, I do enjoy dabbling in the art of word-craft time to time,
I personally have at least five notebooks beside my bed just for that,
I write my thoughts and blurbs down when I feel the spark of ever elusive creativity,
However you or I ever come upon one of those ratty books we’ll have a hard time decoding my archaic sleep deprived language.
That’s how many words I have down!
Hooray, cheers, watch me take up space!
Filling this poem with meaningless jargon!
I meant to say that writing is like its own secret language,
A code I haven’t been able to break yet,
Sure poems are nice, Haikus are great!
But those neatly organized paragraphs and sentences, they could burn for all I care,
My fingers fumble with letters and punctuation, words slipping through my hands,
It befuddles me, in all it’s chaos in order I could compare it to latin spoken backwards!
It’s for the grades and the scores, thats what I learned writing is about,
To hammer out those words into coherent sentences and flowery adjectives,
A struggle that seems to work against me as I struggle to string together my thoughts,
Don’t even get me started with emotions.
Mushy, Gushy, Gross emotions
I’d rather stay away,
I’d rather stay behind all of my reinforced walls, safe without the awkwardness of sharing
The rawness of writing after all the layers are peeled off is terribly invasive,
Uncomfortable and Unknown,
Naked in front of others judgement and comparisons.
I could compare it to a worm underneath the skin,
or like your stomach just dropped a bajillion stories down,
I suppose that is freeing for some, but for me?
No thanks, I have a therapist to share with already,
With the added perk of confidentiality.
I don’t like writing,
Now that is a false statement, but you’ll probably hear me in class complain,
It’s more like; I tolerate and am terribly stressed when I have to write,
But in the end I feel a wash of relief when I finish,
A relieved sigh finishing the last lines and I realize,
I kind of do like writing.Tags: Okemos High School