Welcome back to another crap poem.
My last poem was posted on the DIsability Arts Online blog platform as well as this blog and received some really positive feedback, which I never expect. Thank you if you sent some.
I label myself as a crap poet because I believe my poems have no real merit or quality, but I try to make them fun, thought-provoking and (hopefully) more accessible. The point has always been to try and show that poetry isn’t restriced to only the highly educated and bairds that are long buried.
I use rhyme because I feel that’s the most fun, and also the simplest to engage with.
For all these reasons my poems are labelled crap and I regard myself as a crap poet beside them. Frankly, I never thought anything I wrote would be taken seriously!
Anyway, the positive feedback got me thinking about a new poem with a slightly different rhythm. The Imposter was written last week in response to my own feelings about the feedback I’d received. I hope you like it!
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The Imposter
She felt like a massive imposter.
Not knowing what it would all cost her.
Trying to be the next big thing.
Writing’s a tough gig to win.
Silence was all that she deserved,
and nothing she wrote should be heard.
Her daydreams and her passions drifted,
as her mental illness shifted.
The mirror showed so many flaws,
her belly sagged in to her drawers.
Her friends went quiet when she sank,
so every bottle poured and drank.
She never knew such dreadful sadness,
‘Til grief touched on her growing madness.
Her deafening silence nearly drowned her,
and her paranoia found her.
She dreaded weekdays on her own,
trying to feel the days had flown.
But every second dragged through mud,
her thoughts became a drowning flood.
With every breath she felt constricted,
she knew the sadness must be lifted.
But no one came to rescue her.
She was forgotten, life a blur.
One year passed, then two, then three.
When would she find herself set free?
‘Til one day came a massive change.
She felt a pull, so weird and strange.
The doctor gave her hoards of pills,
that parted clouds to see her skills.
Her mind was busy, but not cluttered.
Her toast was on, the bread was buttered.
Could she find a passion which
would solve this lonely, aching itch?
Pen to paper, thoughts on point.
She snubbed ideas she’d disappoint.
Words grew stronger as she wrote.
Could a poem keep her afloat?
Line after line rejigged and moved,
determined that her point was proved.
She ate the toast, now satisfied,
her artistry had come alive.
The first line came like bolts across her –
‘She felt like a massive imposter’
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I hope you like it. This one has been posted to the DAO platform too. Feel free to pass on any feedback you have.
Thank you for reading 💜
Creative Steph 