so-called imposter syndrome

i’m not good enough, and i don’t know if I ever will be. i read the works of poets old and modern and wilt in the words i will never be brave enough to write. i think. i’d like to be that brave, i just don’t know how. i don’t know how to write all of my grief and goodness into sentences that resonate, that reverberate, that really seep into someone’s head and come back to the surface like crickets in the night. of course, like writers before me, i hope my words will spark something in you. that i light the candle and show you the way to the part of you that was always there, just hidden. that your heart will feel like it might rise out of your ribcage and live a life all its own. that your bones realize they feel deeply unsettled in your muscles and veins and yearn for freedom. see, i don’t know if this makes sense. does it, dear reader? can you sense my intention in the spaces between these ramblings? can you sense that my fingers reach out for the words as I type them? will this inspire you, dear reader? will this make you want to try and fail and try again? like me? i’m not good enough, but i will never stop trying until i feel it. until i feel that my own words serve as my own personal alchemy, that they prove my worth as a thinker, a writer, a poet. until I feel brave.