Each week a new draft of three pages.
Each week a new paper in full.
C pluses or minuses are all I get in return, for the
wheels have been grinding through the toughest
mud I have ever felt. The worst it’s ever gotten
as I barrel through the words I write and read
putting aside all hopes of being a writer.
I cry myself to sleep.
(I’ll never write another story again.) I think.
No one knows why I am the way I am.
“What is wrong,” you ask, as I am crying
on the floor in a fetal position,
back against the wall, in a dark room.
I want to answer. I want to say
that I am being consumed by
my limits to the point that I,
I try and say it, but it—
hits the wall in my throat
choking me with a horrible sound.
Gives way to louder sobbing as I dig my
fingers into my scalp, folding
further into my fetal position.
My whole body heaving with
the burden of my limitations
“What is it?” you say worried
and annoyed. Doesn’t help my frustration.
“I” the word made it past the wall
the rest gave way to more choking
and coughing as I continue crying,
ny whole body convulsing with sobs.
“Well, spit it out.” I grab
what I can and throw it
at you screaming nothing in
english, trying to chase you away
because you are not helping or getting it.
“Go-away” I struggle to say through my sobs,
yet easier through the barrier.
“Fine! Don’t have to be a bitch about it!”
I have no energy to throw anything and I scream
as I wrap my arms around my mouth
letting my screams and sobs
be muffled in my sleeves
to hide the shame
of what I have done.
While the years of stupidity, usually
in the back seat of my mind,
cave in on me.
I rock back and forth, my spine and ribs
hitting the cement wall
hoping the twinges of pain will loosen
the barrier from my larynx,
so I can tell you that I am just really dyslexic
at this moment.
I want to say,
that “I am sorry. Come back
I’m just frustrated.
Another story is primed to be written
but I have another draft to write,
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