They say you can outgrow your childhood fears and experiences, but I say you don't outgrow them, you learn how to weed them from your mind. But sometimes, the weeds grow back. I see them growing, popping out of the dank soil of my daily routine. I figure I'll ignore them. I don't feel like doing anything.
You'd think I'd learn to pluck them at first sight but I don't. They grow and mix with all the things I'm trying to do. They interfere. They surround and choke my mind. The vines grow tighter and squeeze out all the happiness. I see them. It's easy enough to grab them and pull. Pull out the negative thoughts. Pluck out the gripping fear. Though they are within reach, I don't reach out. My arms feel like lead. I'm trapped. Why bother, they'll just grow back.
My mental garden is overgrown. I won't feel happy until I start pulling the weeds. The way I do that is through writing. The poem below is an attempt to convince me that I am worthy. I submitted it to a contest. I didn't win, but that's beside the point. I was brave. I pulled a leaf from the vine. It's a start, yes?
The Word Ghosts
Ghosts aren’t real! That’s what “They” say,
But “They” haven’t heard mine, I hear them each day.
Ghosts visit each morning, when I open my eyes,
My brain is filled with their ghostly cries.
“You are nothing to no one. Why do you care?”
“Bring on the tears! Embrace the despair!”
Ignoring these taunts, I haul out of bed.
When I look in the mirror, taunts float near my head.
“Why do you bother? Nothing will do,
You are still the lowest, and you’re ugly too.”
I glance at the note, the note on the wall.
“You are a warrior! Warts and all!”
I remind myself that, though I have ghosts,
It’s my good thoughts I should listen to most.
I usually skip breakfast since food’s always a fight.
“It will make you fatter!” I hear with each bite.
I move on with my day, mentally bracing
For the echoes of words forever are racing.
“You’ll never amount, you are not valid,
You’ll always be last!” sing the echoes’ ballad.
The ghosts were once people, intertwined with my life,
Their voices and taunts made cuts like a knife.
My scars are not obvious; I’ve learned how to hide.
But the ghosts of their words are forever inside.
“Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words will never hurt you.”
How wrong those lines for words are spears that, to the heart, run through.
Ghosts do not care if the words are maligned.
They never stop wanting to abase my mind.
But I glance at the note, the note on the wall.
“You are a warrior! Warts and all!”
And that’s how I continue to live out each day,
Silently keeping the word ghosts away.
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