Screwdrivers & Sculptures

I wish I were as small

as an ant

to crawl into one’s

mind

with a scant

screwdriver and manual.

 

I’d slither

and slide into the control centre.

Somewhere in between the front

and left part of the skull.

Slightly hidden

but not at all dull.

 

Don’t worry.

I’d tweak with some things,

of course:

Make them pleased to see me.

Throw out their judgements –

make them like me

in the form of a plea.

 

Accept me

Give me attention

without tension.

 

I need to know

my place here

or the voices I will hear.

I need

importance-

not transient.

For once.

 

I know I sound selfish

with all these “I”s.

 

A little working ant

full of ego

aren’t we all?

 

I can’t help it

if I find hostility behind every look

if I don’t seem to find acceptance

even in the commodity

of my own mind –

… maybe I should have resigned.

 

If I rip myself

at the edges

tear out some pages

maybe I’ll fit

their ideals,

on wheels.

 

If I change the

title of the book,

fake an excerpt

add a few words

then I’ll find my nook.

 

So, they will open

the doors

say “welcome,

it’s all yours.”

Because I will

be the little sculpture

they built,

their little puppet.

 

In exchange,

just my identity

to become a non-entity.

 

I pull it out of my pocket

just like a card-

one swipe

it’s all gone.

 

No big deal, right?

 

Well I guess, for now,

I’ll return to my own fantasies,

hopes

one day I will rise above

this all,

realise nobody

is staring

it is only my brain

that is tearing.


Hello y’all. I wrote this poem when I was feeling very anxious and stressed. I had a big event coming up and thoughts were filling my head at a constant rate. I needed to pour some thoughts out on paper. This poem is about social anxiety and being scared of people’s judgements. At times I feel like an imposter, scared to talk because I think I am not enough, and not wanted. This thought of wanting to be likeable to all is an unreachable goal. Pretending to be someone else just to be part of a group is the worst thing you could do. Soon, you will forget who you are.

I wrote this poem to console myself. Some people will like you, some will not and that is OK because no matter what, people will judge you. Don’t let that rule you. What matters is how you see yourself.

 

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2 thoughts on “Screwdrivers & Sculptures

  1. Considering that you wrote this wonderful poem when you were anxious and stressed, this is a massive achievement. I could never write something this meaningful under such circumstances!

    Your metaphor about the ant, its tools and its manual is a fitting one. How much easier would life be if people reflected how they truly felt! If there were but a few possible tweaks of the mind to make this possible, it could make for an interesting result!

    Liked by 1 person

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