Heather the 12-year-old poet (no. 2)

Okay, a forewarning before I share this poem: I was NOT abused as a child, and the poem has nothing to do with child abuse. Don't get too freaked out.

SCAR POEM: My Childhood

Punched in the face,
shoved into the wall,
glared at,
'till the shivers run down my spine,
tickling faintly,
but in a horrid way.
Shouted at,
ignored continuously,
and when something is wanted,
shoved off to fetch it.
Forced to sit still,
to be taught new things,
and how to do them,
so I can be useful.
All tensed up,
I hold my breath,
not daring to cry out,
not letting a sound escape.
For if I should get up,
as if to leave,
then would come the footsteps,
and a quick, smarting strike.
Such is my life,
the only one I know at the time,
where terror rules the day,
and nightmares rule the night.
And yet there are the good things,
that exist in spite of this.
Five years old,
I escape to school,
where the kids are my age,
and all are shy like me.
I meet new friends,
lifelong ones,
who I can trust implicitly,
who'll never let me down,
who help bring out my personality,
which has been trapped inside me,
never daring to show its face.
Gradually,
my newfound confidence strengthens,
and I venture out to higher things,
letting myself get rid of my stress,
burying myself in schoolwork.
And then one day,
my problem disappears,
quite suddenly,
forever, it seems.
But still it hurts,
to remember the days,
back as a little child,
when terror lived inside my house.

Umm... actually, I think I'll decline to comment on this one. I remember what I wrote it about, but I like it more for the writing itself than for what it refers to. It's a scar poem, after all.

My biggest fear is failing to be a worthwhile person

A friend asked me the other day what my biggest fear is, and I didn't know. But looking back on my thought patterns for the last two years of my life, I think I've figured it out (see title of this post).

Yes... I have failing-to-be-a-worthwhile-person-phobia. I think a lot of people have it to varying degrees. Most of them probably don't even know they have it.

I think it could also be called fear of being a boring person. Not only a boring person to other people, but a boring person to oneself. Currently, I am intensely suffering the latter.

I feel like my brain activity is slowly diminishing. There was a time when I thought about everything, all the time. Not in the sense of worrying or stressing about various things. Just pure curiosity about the world. About people, about society, religion, philosophy, the sciences, the arts... you name it. I was always asking questions--how does that work? why does this happen? how did people ever figure this out? what if society suddenly became like this? why couldn't the world have been this way?

Nowadays? If I get a spare moment to think, I'm perfectly happy to waste it staring at the wall. Stark contrast.

One of my theories is that a lot of my questioning used to be sparked by books that I read. Back when I actually had and/or made time to read, my mind was always alive with new ideas and perspectives about life and mankind. I also think that what I read made up a large part of the subjects I liked to talk about. Lately, I feel like I don't talk about much except for the same old things all the time. I really am turning into a boring person...

I went to the library the other day and just reveled in all of the knowledge contained there. I checked out some books that I want to read, but I haven't had time yet to crack open even one cover. Even so, having a stack of books on my chair has put me somewhat at ease. Maybe it's not too late yet to rediscover my love of learning.