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Spell Checker

By @MeaningfulMee

Spell Checker

Spell checker 

I am staring at an empty page.

Relighting scented candles and toxic thoughts.

Lyric blare into my ears.

The words that I am hearing,

They are profound.

Perfection.

I grasp onto the melodies, 

Craving a muse.

That does not refuse publicity.

That does not hold a grudge against my words.

But it is hard.

I start a line.

Then refrain,

Review the collateral.

Rewind the cursor and start all over again.

I eventually either evaporate or congratulate myself,

For bursting into colours.

Creating a universe with the tapping of a keyboard.

The mid-day sunlight turns to starlight.

Time becomes an irrelevant concept.

As I compile my darkest thoughts,

The tears on the page.

I tear out my heart and watch as it beats in time.

I pull at loss threads,

Ripping holes in my soul.

I poke my insecurities.

Wave a red ribbon at the bull inside me.

I break every bone,

Crack open the side of my mind that is plastered shut for a reason.

I lay naked on a page.

Reopening scars just to have something worthy of a stage.

I sit back after my soul is empty and the page is full.

Then I look.

I look and I see the red lines under every word.

The blue scribbles under the lines.

I find that there is no suggestion.

And words like contradiction become three-letter alternatives.

It is affirmative.

In those moments.

The major success for me,

Is a distant dream.

And my “world-changing schemes” are just make-believe.

I sit there with ink-stained hands and tired eyes.

I realise.

As I sit next to a page of self-destruction.

That will leave scars upon my skin.

And I realise that passion and pain do not make poetry,

profound.  

That I will never write literature perfection.

That my affection for the written word is something I should admire at a distance.

That my mind is too messed up to create something of quality.

I become quiet.

I fill with rage.

I pick up the page and light it on fire.

I admire the orange haze as tears stain my face.

The ashes on my desk are worthless,

They were even when they were whole.

I punch the wall and I fall,

Down.

Down.

Down.

My soul is shattered, 

I gather the pieces and pick up a dagger.

The daggers always have ink on the tip.

I contemplate.

Then I shake away the thought.

I watch my soul drown, 

Craving a pen but getting nothing.

I remind my soul that my mind is not cut out for the stage.

That I am too dyslexic to an author.

That you can not spell success without being able to spell.

I remind myself that none of the greats,

Managed to break the spell checker. 

Managed to be so stupid that programmes programmed for my kind,

Couldn’t even find a spark when everyone I admire has a red raging fire.

I remind myself that none of the greats,

Even used a spell checker.

Some time goes by.

The notebooks on my desk,

They are all empty.

I hit the door every time I have a breakthrough.

Have a breakdown at the thought of another plot floating in my mind,

Knowing that it is hopeless.

For years I go with this.

Instead of writing, I am watching t.v.

I am trying to distract my mind.

Then it comes on.

I rewatch the episodes I watched when I was ten years old.

The boy on the T.V he was suffering,

Just like me.

I remember the feeling,

The light that lit up my eyes. 

I can still hear me whisper underneath my breath,

I am not alone.

I can still touch the goosebumps on my skin.

I can still feel my stomach filling up with butterflies,

And tears welling up in my eyes.

I remember the smile on my face as I walked into school the next day,

Cos I different like him and that for a day that was cool.

I remembered the moment I found out the man who created the world that made me feel whole,

Was like me.

And I remember thinking that even if it was small there was a chance.

So I ran to my desk and let the page take hold of me.

I shattered my soul and gathered up a dagger.

Ink on its point.

And I wrote like I didn’t need special treatment or extra teaching.

At the end of page,

I noticed all the red lines and blue scribbles.

My heart was breaking but still,

I continued.

I became the girl who wore a badge saying ***** I broke the spell checker.

I hoped that I was a contradiction.

As I stood on the sidelines.

I grasped the page with my shaking hands, 

It was me against the world, but I couldn’t let it show.

Butterflies in my stomach.

Palms sweaty.

It was my go.

The room went silent.

As I stepped onto the stage.

Microphone to my mouth.

My introduction was short and I had nothing to hide behind.

I looked down at the page.

I saw letters not words.

Muddled, mixed, mangled.

A jumble off symbols without meaning.

Like alphabet soup.

I cleared my throat.

Muttered the tile.

And then I was home.

The words seemed to flow.

I was free. 

For those three minutes.

I felt worthy.

Like I was right where I was meant to be.

Then the end came and the people clapped.

I smiled but I was back in the room and I could not help but think but question my ability.

I stood there microphone to my mouth and I wondered,

Would they have reacted like that if I wasn’t the girl who broke her spellchecker?

I wondered if they want a success story so bad that they were willing to downgrade.

That it was just nice that a girl wanted to be there.

And a year later, 

An open mic regular. 

I still can’t shake the thought.

I still ask myself,

Would they react differently if I didn’t need a spell checker?   

 

 

  

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