I am treading in writings that I love that I am just too afraid to share with the world.

It’s been a hard day staring at computer screens, editing poems I know I can’t share.

I am just not there today.

The lump in my throat won’t let me share them.

I am trying to take a break from working with my writing coach because I cannot afford for her to affirm my fears of being a horrible writer, every week. I am trying to learn to do it on my own.

Apparently learning to trust yourself is the reason we create art?

I am also taking a poetry class, and I am at that stage in learning, where, I now know what NOT to do, but I am struggling with doing it, and it’s just making me judge myself even more.

I gave myself this deadline of ‘blog every Tuesday’ to force myself to do this.

My housemate suggested I write about having everything to write about and yet nothing to share. I feel like that’s all I ever do. But oh well, here is another one.

Writing about writing.

This is the first project to come out of my first ever poetry class:

The smell of the grass whispers
The womb was never a world at all.
I’d pledge my allegiance,
But I’m worried you would think I am trying too hard.
I’ll worry anyway.
Some things are so true, only wombs can ruin them,
Things on the edge of existing,
I tried to count how long I could tuck in my thumb,
The one that represents ego.
She said that I am so afraid of being right,
I believed her. She said
It’s holding me back: Words,
I’m afraid to come out of them, how much
I like them, allegiance to what is.
No one cares about me as much as I care
about what you think of this.
But It’s not for you,
I hate doing this for you, this
has to be enough
for you. The voice that tells me what this needs
to be: Fear. I’m mad
where I am, grass—
The wonder of if I could be what I hope I am.
Words, I’m scared
you’ll tell me I’m not,
I’m scared I’ll believe you.