Belief in Doubt

a lyric poem by Erica

Things will end up badly, I believe.

I cannot do much but be apprehensive of the future.

Somewhere along the way I might become stranded from thinking too far out, leaving everyone behind for a world that may never exist, but

I just need reassurance, comfort, condolence.

I’ve been reduced to this repeated, rusty windup mindset that nothing is alright.

This decrepit brain is not mine, I want to think it is definitely not mine,

Not this young fourteen-year-old’s mind,

Not a replacement for what could have been passion for multifarious subjects, the omnivorous attentiveness of a

child, with a pinch of a recalcitrant teen.

So what, I might be growing, but is it wrong for my curiosity to grow?

My creativity is out on a limb, tied to this so-called commendable ability to mold something from the twisted dark.

Behind big paragraphs and lengthy sentences, I remain parsimonious, drowning in a puddle of quandary,

With no time to revel in any achievement, only time to spit out words, words, words.

Drugs in the form of ink, of mouth and type,

As wisps of black clusters on white canvas and echoes in the back of people’s’ minds.

I should feel satisfied, at least knowing this much and being able to

Write, speak, think, pray with fluency, without having to

Remember how to format a sentence, think back to basic grammar

Because it has already been ingrained into the way I

Write, speak, think, and pray.

A privilege, a fruit of opportunity,

Perhaps I do not deserve this gift.

In my fourteenth year, my words get me sick, perhaps as a form of reprisal,

And I realize while squandering, I grew my wall of apathy,

An indifference to how I handle my words,

And I haven’t realized my hands are bleeding and glass is shattered everywhere.

The tiles are glaring pristine white on red, red, red.

Crying is obsolete, it cannot heal these wounds,

For consecrated tears are not holy water, and can only stultify the pain.

My head will clear for a moment

Until my doubt returns.

Things will end up badly, I believe.


Erica says, “This is a ninth grade rookie speaking. I’m currently a fourteen year old who enjoys searching for inspiration all around. Most of my inspiration and influence comes from fellow online poets, photography, and past experiences. As a hobbyist writer, I wish to delve deeper into darker and less-acknowledged emotions. All I can really hope for is readers to understand and grow their sympathy and compassion for others.”


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