Insecure

(an abecedarian poem)

All of my heart poured out on paper
Because I don’t know any other way
Creative non-fiction
Drenched in imagery, often pain
Everything in ink seems vital
For the reader to know, to
Grasp the tiniest bit of my
Hard and hallelujah life.
I open my email
Jittery hands, surging pulse
Keep breathing, it’s just constructive criticism.
Lies explode in
My mind. “You are
Not what you think you are.
Other writers don’t need
Praise to keep their fingers clicking away.
Quit.
Run. Hide. Never write again!”
Shame and embarrassment eventually
Turn into perspective. But how can anyone
Understand my words, my
Voice, my stories
While I attempt to guard the scarlet
X marked on my heart?
You tell me. Can
Zealous writers pour out their souls without it ripping them apart?