Superiority Complex

i hoard words
my mind is full of them
piled haphazardly in a corner

i always think i’ll need them
one day

but when will i ever have any use for words
i can barely pronounce
who will read a poem
they need a dictionary to understand

i guess i’ve always fancied myself
a learned woman
i’ve always prided myself on
being “the bookworm”

at least, that’s what they all used to call me

i’ve tried before
to write like those great poets of old
but i am no shakespeare
i am no poe

it’s exhausting,
trying to live up to those standards

and so, i let the piles fall
spill unnecessary words across my mind
and wade through them to discover
myself, underneath all that baggage


I used to feel this way a lot: if I couldn’t compare my writing to the old greats, then it wasn’t worth it to me to write. I guess a part of it is my horrible self-esteem issues, and the fact that, when I was younger, I was considered to be the Reader, the Writer; I was the one all my classmates resented because subjects like literature and grammar were easy and fun for me.

I’m learning that instead of trying to live up to ridiculous standards, I need to write for ME, and write about things I know. I may not always be happy with the results, but I at least feel more like myself.