The babble of intellectuals overwhelms me.
Dare I flood the class with my thoughts?
Ha! They would drown in asininity.

My confidence in comprehension is deceitful.
I incessantly amuse myself!

I am expected to actually purge my thoughts to these people?
How entertaining it would be to observe-
Peers wounding me with daggers of inferiority.

Why do I fool myself into believing that I have a talent
Pertinent to any of this?
I do not possess the same abilities as those who can so effortlessly
Manipulate the English language.

I am not Plath.
I am not Thoreau.
I am not Dickinson.
I am not Emerson.
I am not Frost.

I am not a prodigy.
Nor am I a scholar.
Nor am I brilliant.

I am not worthy of putting pen to paper.
And yet, I continue to do so.
But only to salvage the bit of sanity I have left.

Sure, all are quick to flatter and praise.
But it’s merely a pat on the back,
And a “good try, pal.”

To doubt oneself is death of the soul.
I buried mine years ago.