Feeling unhappy;
that I'm not good enough
Unconvinced and in despair,
Disbelief in my own
act and decisions

I am doing the best I could
to meet the expectations;
thus I am frustrated

Why am I putting
a lot of pressure on myself
just to seek attention?

I am trying hard
until gratified
Why am I still unfulfilled?

In fact, I am scared
I fear that I may fail
and may not reach satisfaction

It feeds my self-doubt
perhaps I am good-for-nothing

i've always wanted to apply for CSSSA,
but i'm too scared the rejection letter
will be the future shades of senior year
when i finally hear back from the mailman
who took my essays a year ago,
all bundled up in pre-approved envelopes,
stamped, addressed, received, thrown aside.
-
but that's not for two years,
so i don't know why i'm worried.
-
i've always wanted to do something,
not make something of myself,
even though the verb is the same in
spanish, with a reflexive difference.
-
in regard to this, a wise twenty-something (contradictory)
once told me to let myself feel instead of worrying so much:
"to put it less eloquently, feelings are like ****. FEEL 'EM."
-
apparently i haven't felt in eight months.
-
so maybe in compensation,
i will apply to CSSSA,
though the deadline is the 28th,
and the assigned portfolio demands
an utter lack of procrastination--
not my strong suit, you could say,
as a month of homework is still
sleeping in my bed.
-
****, it's all due tuesday.
-
also, while walking home
i saw a norse god namesake
on a balcony-asgard, wreathed
in the byproduct of his last smoke,
and somehow, despite my inability
to feel, that just made me so sad.
-

when i place everything that i am
and ever was and ever will be
into a blender, the terror in my bones
isn't born from pressing the button
but from dumping the contents out
for you to defenestrate.

Her scent is left faded yet not forgotten,
A tarnish in my deepest soul,
The sillage of your presence
Lingers ever more.   Could I ever ask you to return?
Absolutely,
But I fear the darkness of rejection,
More than never knowing.

she stares at the pages in front of her face
funny to think a few sheets of paper determines her place
her self-worth molded my that single number
exhausted from the stress, all she wants is to slumber
she taps the pencil against her chin
every student watching her, but this time she doesn’t grin
she feels the pressure, the stares, the looks
if her grade’s not over ninety, what’s the point of the books?
she tries so hard not to crack
with thoughts running fast on a race-track
she goes to bed with tears in her eyes
not knowing what the next day will bring when she’ll arise
...and do it all again.