The Stocks

Energy-draining years
clawing their way over me,
weighing me down,
demanding I look more closely.
Make everything perfect,
see what’s not there to see.
Get beaten with violent criticism
but hear no helpful critique.
Battle to get noticed;
crusade to break free
from every pretender and facade
who are apparently better than me.
The agony of being a wordsmith
tortures me in my sleep.
I’ll never be good enough.
I can never thank you adequately.

Back in my awkward school days
words feigned to be my enemies.
You taught me how to break them down
and made me a devotee
of all authored chef-d'oeuvre;
all lexical artistry.
You are the shivering backbone
behind my constantly suffering poetry.

So, uninspiring layabouts
can say exactly what they choose.
I don’t care for playground insults,
I only want to impress you.