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.