so much of me is tired of writing poorly

so much of me is tired of writing poorly

but another much of me knows I need these

pretend drafts to pile up until I use real

energy to write.

I don’t know who I’m apologizing to.

Maybe me. Maybe you.

Pride, perhaps. But that would indicate to be proud. What do I have to proud of? Who am I to assume my bad drafts are not just another regular piece of mine?

Should I cry? I don’t know. My eyes don’t care anymore. But somehow I still see potential in a me that maybe no one else has ever even see before.

Asking for approval? Wanting acknowledgement?

Oh, the qualities of the useless.

What is this, then? I ask to myself.

Is my pride from love or hate?

How arrogant to assume anyone’s reading at all?

But I am, I say.

I’m reading my writing and shudder at the nonsense. While other me deep down inside says, keep going. It’s almost time. We’re getting closer with every line.