Dear scrapbook
I hate Fridays. Not cause they’re always hot or the morning periods are mostly foggy, but because it’s occupation day in school. We all have to dress up in our “future costumes” and do a brief presentation of how we would help the community when we get older.
But why do they laugh when it’s my turn. Why do they laugh when I say I wanna be a poet. They don’t laugh at Jimmy, he wants to be a carpenter. Tho I don’t show it, it hurts bad. Really bad. Sometimes I wish we all didn’t have emotions – no more pain, no loss, no embarrassments. But that also means no more love, faith or hope, which are the major thoughts fueling my desire. My desire to show the world that I don’t have to wear suits or wake up by six to be famous, rich, comfortable or happy.
My lovely parents don’t even help matters. All they say is “make us proud ”. They don’t care or ask how. They just rub the fact that they are older and provide the money for my daily needs . And they do not forget to end every conversation with the same words “make us proud!!! ”.
Then am left with the internet. Creating blogs, posting stuffs – that’s the easy part. The hard part is finding people who would have the patience read your story in black and white. People who would read and appreciate your work. Not people who bottle your hard work into four letters -NICE (in lower case actually ) and the rest just write SAME to at least make known their presence, or people you have to remind that there is a column for comments.
Maybe i should stop the whole act and give up my dreams (cause that would be so much easier ). Maybe I should just follow the train, that way I won’t feel special or weird. My own family don’t approve of my works, so why continue.
I know there is a God, and he gave me this gifts for a reason, not just writing love poems that would impress the girls (that am sure). So am going to pick up a pen, no matter how much pain echoes through my heart or how rejection stares me in the face. Ink will continuously flow from it till my bones are weak and shaky or life finally agrees to release me. Ever stroke of my pen would be an expression of my thoughts and emotions on paper. And I would not stop writing till the whole world knows, I was here. Ps
Poetic Justice.
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