I talk
And sometimes, when I talk
I hear my mom's words.
I hear my dad's words.
I hear my friends' words.
Is this so wrong?
That my speech
changes?
Sometimes these tiny words crawl
and creep
into my thoughts.
Is this so wrong?
That my opinion
changes?
Sometimes I remember before
when I would write
without the burden of "plagiarism."
What a conniving term
to make me sorry
for being ordinary;
for being un-unique.
Sometimes I feel
These layers of others' ideas
buzzing around my head,
tickling my mind.
Who am I to judge
the value of these words?
Sometimes I worry.
How long will it be
before these words
eat mine?
Author notes
Wrote this while reading Langston Hughes for English class...
anythingg ^^
Comments
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This is very interesting.
What poem of Langston Hughes were you reading?
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