The poems.
The old, brown notebook,
Filled with all of my secrets,
Big and small,
Coded into poetry.

The pressure to create constantly
makes those creations feel disposable

do you know the weight of it?
clawing your way up
test after test,
year after year,
to be the perfect reflection of the dreams they have for you,
those that are now your own.
where your worth now hangs.

when they see the prize,
they say, 'oh it comes so easily to her'

Easily?

i bled for this.
i screamt for this.
and my mind?
it whispers
'this is just what you're supposed to do'
you are 'gifted'
its your mere responsibility.
nothing to celebrate. nothing special.

isnt it?

You can't force it on yourself.
The words come by themselves,
In the most random moment,
To help you
Or doom you.
They have their own will.
A sudden wave of inspiration,
On a train, bus, school,
But when you want to write,
It tells you you're not ready.