This is insanely hard!

When you graduate from young poet to intermediate poet to adept poet to grand poet, is there a medal or sign or celebration with confetti and hats and noise blowers? A trophy with your name on it saying “take off your headgear and smile!”

I feel like one of those people who thought they were good at something once, but they never should have quit their day jobs. I suppose I’m paying my dues – the ones who fight for it make it – that’s just how nature is: Darwinism, the shark that survives its siblings, the victim screaming and kicking its attacker has a less likely change of feeling the full extent of the attack. Did I just equate writing to being attacked?

These, I suppose, are my scars and someday I’ll have stories about them, experiences from them, lessons learned, but right now they fucking hurt and sometimes I wonder if I can even do this at all, if I can even grow beyond these awkward young years feeling like I have something worth saying. Everyday is like starting over – you never know where you’re going to be emotionally, mentally, physically. And I suppose that’s art – why art is life; why writing is life.

Today, my attempt at strength is bending a paperclip back in its place. Tomorrow, maybe I’ll bite some pens and put a word or two down.

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