A Letter From My Self-Doubt

The burden of every writer

Photo by richard hewat on Unsplash

Now you’re climbing
to where the light
is intense enough
to help you grow like a vine —
to reach the top of the tree line
only to realize
you were rooted
to the dirt
the entire time.

Have you taken a moment
to seriously ask yourself
if you’re good enough
for this world?
Probably not. Your delusions
have just climbed to the next level
to where you believe in yourself.
You were better off
as a child knowing
you couldn’t do anything right.
The words of your father
on a speaker in your mind:
“If you only you were a better son.”

You can’t stop sinking,
climbing an abyss.
Mycelium wraps
and insects’ feed.
Where dirt and worms know
their kind.
This is a dangerous place.
Hidden.
where loneliness
asks why a star and blackhole
are the same.