Spilled Ink, Vol. 33 – Doubt


The frame is mostly dark, except for a desk, where a laptop, water bottle, and skeleton figurine are under a lamp’s light.

| Is this a good title? |

I doubt it.

Was that a good opening line?
I doubt it.

Do you still have their attention?
I doubt it.

Will many people ever read this?
I doubt it.

Is writing this pointless?
I doubt it.

Does this poem have a discernible deeper meaning?
I doubt it.

In the context of this poem, can you respond with anything other than “I doubt it”?
I doubt it.

| I am |

I don’t know what I am
I just know that I am

| Someone |

If I could, I would be no one
Just for a little
And maybe eventually the real me
Would emerge from the blur
But alas
Every day life demands that I be someone
What a tiring endeavor that is

| I suppose |

I suppose there’s a reason.

For what?

Well . . I suppose I don’t quite know.

| Doubt |

Doubt is a rough debt I’m not fully certain how I acquired
Apparently it’s a disorder I often question I have
But that’s a part of it, it seems
Maybe I’ve never understood feeling absolutely connected to reality
Or myself
I wonder if I’ve always missed a percent or two
It’s probably more than that now
Life is an illusion cast over an insurmountable chemical reaction
Perhaps my visor is just a little ill-fitting

| Disorder |

It’s . . doubting if everything will be okay
Then doubting the doubt of whether you’ve doubted enough
And they’ll feel like lies, the things you tell yourself just to survive
They’re true, they’re true, but this curse, it’s a game of bluff
One day you’ll be tired and your brain is rewired from all the help you’ll receive
And you’ll just accept that you’ll never know, because this wretched curse, it deceives

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