Dreams of granduer shattered by empty space.
What I hate they love
and what I love they politly move on from.
Constant comparison accompanied by the little voice in my head
“Stay true to yourself, you’re doing just as good”.
I wasn’t raised to be “just as good”.
I was raised to be better.
Raised by gifted kid syndrome.
I know I don’t need to be better.
But who’s going to tell the other voice in my head that?
I dream of jealousy
and cloak myself with emeralds.
And so I slap my knuckles
and dreams of grandeur.
The little people that live in my head
said ” there’s a place for worser betters, the box marked dead letters.”
As a failed ” gifted kid” myself I appreciated this one.
I feel your frustration.
All I thought of was who the hell, other than the little voice in your head, says you or Coleman or anyone, is a failed gifted kid? I so wish I could reach through your poems and hug this syndrome out of all you all. And if you want to see a failed person call me up and I’ll drive over and stand outside your house and you can see failure at her finest and know she’s doing the best she can do, so she’s really succeeded.
I might just have to hug ya back. You amazing and successful thing you.
Cloak myself with emeralds. Nice.