I worked so hard to get where I am.
I stayed up late to get where I am.
I starved myself to get where I am.
My fingers ache from moving my pen so much to get where I am.
And as I finish my poem with so much emotion--------------silence.
No one claps or compliments. They pass me like a stranger in a giant crowd.
"Okay. Next up we have-"
Hatred. Sadness. Disgust.
I hate the way I write. I hate myself. What can I do to change? I try to discover my mistakes, but how will I know if I have improved? My next chance is in 12 months. I feel nothing but sadness. I should've worked harder, I should've known! I am disgusted with myself. Did I actually think I would make it? It wasn't strong enough. It didn't move anyone nor leave anyone speechless. Just blank. I was so delusional to think my writing was actually great.
Hatred. Sadness. Disgust.
©notlazarus
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