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chicken drop
It was really important a few months ago that I get my poetry ready to be published. Now the manuscript just sits on the floor. Ready to be published. Doing nothing.
The cost of self-publication is not cheap. But, I still have money, and what is more important to spend money on than this?
I re-read the poems again and again, looking for last minute typos and just reading them. The more I read them, the less I like them. I think the whole idea of publishing is fucking retarded.
No one gives a shit about poetry. It's probably the most disliked form of writing on the planet. The only people who read poetry are the people who know the poet. And they only do so out of some sense of obligation. I would bet $20,000 that if I gave my poetry book to my brothers, not a single one would actually READ it.
This is just another project I was so excited about, but never completed.
I really do wonder if I have ADHD.
I read the poems and they sound too feminine. Too personal. Too innocent. Too depressive. Just too.
Too much like me.
I don't like me, and I wonder if I will ever get to a place in life where I won't be able to say that.
A lifetime of systematic bullying just wears a person down. It's easy to be a victim when that's all you've ever known. No matter how many positive affirmations are said and meditation minutes completed and seeking out of faith that happens, there is always that seed of disgust in the back of the brain. You suck. You know you suck. Everyone hates you. Everyone goes out of their way to tell you that they hate you. You are disgusting. Fuck off and die.
Too nice for my own good. Too concerned for others. Too emotional. Too empathetic. Too tolerant.
Like a guinea pig. All too ready to forgive even the most heinous of abuses because all there is, is now. Let it go. Be Zen. That's why they abuse them in laboratories. That quality trait that they consider a weakness in all forms of life. Some call it being docile. Maybe it's more along the lines of being forgiving. Forgive and forget. Again and again and again and again.
I read those poems and I think that maybe being an artist was just a phase. A very long phase. That I've used up all my creativity. All my inspiration is gone. Now it's just time to adult. Time to wage slave until I can barely stand, my spirit finally breaks for really real, and my body dies.
I haven't published yet, because I feel that every single decision I make is WRONG. I am fully NOT capable of making the right choice. Even if I try to fool myself and choose the opposite of whatever my instinct tells me, that's wrong. I can't even pull a George (from Seinfeld).
The poems I chose are wrong. The publisher I pay will rip me off. The distributor I pay will not do their job. Everything will just make more trouble for me. Everyone will fuck my shit up and I will just be more upset and it will be worthless.
Worthlessness and debilitating doubt. Maybe those are signs of depression. I KNOW they are. I know what all this is.
It's all FUCKING BULLSHIT!
3:05 PM - Thursday, May. 23, 2019
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