Welcome to the 45th edition of Crap Poems.
This time my poem focuses on being invaded by the dreaded imposter when you’re just trying to believe you’re good at something.
I’m so proud to have won two awards for my campaigning in mental health, but when I found out about it a couple of weeks ago I felt like it must be a mistake, and that I didn’t deserve them.
Actually, that’s still how I feel. It doesn’t make sense. I wish I knew how to feel proud and accept my achievements, but it’s a real struggle. Even more so because I can’t accept the awards in person as a direct result of my own mental and physical health.
At least the irony isn’t lost on me.
Anyway, here’s my poem. I hope you like it!
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Courageous
Monday came with such a shock.
I’d won a great award.
Imposter came within a blink.
Explaining I’m a fraud.
“Don’t be accepting of such a praise”
“You know you don’t deserve.”
His voice is strong and hard to quiet.
His words whack a raw nerve.
That tiny thought of happiness.
The idea I’d feel proud.
Should be all that I hear right now.
But imposter‘s voice is loud.
“Congratulations, that’s so great.”
“You’ve earned that recognition.”
Digesting praise is hard for me.
I have pride malnutrition.
For many artists, modesty
is part of our religion.
Daily worship, average work.
No grandeur, not a smidgen.
Why is pride so difficult?
Why’s imposter so unkind?
Is there a way to feel at ease?
Be positive-inclined?
Every day I heard his words.
Reminders, I’m not worthy.
The weekend came. I took a break.
Creative juices, nervy.
On Sunday night, I took a bath.
To quiet his restless slaughter.
As bubbles popped, imposter grew.
So I drowned him in the water.
Artists make what we know best.
Creativity is courageous.
But submerging my internal voice.
Was an act truly contagious.
All week long I cannot help
Imposters words, digested.
But every Sunday, knuckles crack.
At bath time he gets bested.
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Thanks for reading 💜
Creative Steph 