I hate
I hate the white, clean, crisp sheet of paper that stares back at me.
The pen it my hand mocks me, and that eg’s on the paper.
Everything, everyone, screaming at me in union.
I hate it
My subconscious thought rush forward to create anxiety.
The fear of never being good enough will always taunt me.
I hate it
Of course it doesn’t help being compared.
I’m compared to my sisters, everyone in the art department, and practically every stranger holding a pen.Different styles, techniques, and skills and yet it’s like I’m suppose to be better than all of that. How is that even possible? Well let me tell you;
I hate it
Raging thoughts twist my mind tearing it apart. Always so much raging through my mind. Whatever I do in life will be insignificant, and I know it, I only wish it wasn’t true.
I hate it
Maybe the worst tactic yet is when I’m disregarded. When I go unnoticed and when nobody cares. I get overlooked and left behind. Exteriour me says nothing, does nothing, while inside I want to scream out. The words in my mind yearn to be heard, they yearn to flow out like a depressing river. “Look at me! Just for once, make me feel special!” my thoughts rage, but only I can hear it. The silence continues, and hurt and feeling of being disregarded, continues.
I hate it
I put my sketch book back in my bag and leave. Nobody has seen my work for the days, but that’s ok. It won’t live up to anyone’s expectations, how could it, it doesn’t even live up to my own expectations. Nobody asks to see my work, and so nobody ever does. Nobody sees what I can and do accomplish. And to be honest…
I hate it
The dreaded paper stares back at me with a malicious grin while my pen whispers atrocious thoughts to me.