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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.
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.
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.
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,
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,
My soul is shattered,
I gather the pieces and pick up a dagger.
The daggers always have ink on the tip.
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 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.
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?