Deep-diving into the culprits of my self-deprecation, "Discount Shakespeare" showcases all 50 of my poems, originally posted on Twitter, which I had written from my high school years to this day (whenever this gets published, I guess).
Teeming with...
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Discount Shakespeare An anthology of musings Poetry by luxsick
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Hello! I'm so glad you could make it.
I'm writing this obligatory foreword to tell all of you how bad I am at writing forewords. I suck at them. Andrea and forewords go together like the Philippines and governance: never gonna happen!
I always skipped forewords whenever I read my favorite novels, because I didn't wanna waste my time reading through an author's acknowledgements towards people I completely didn't know of. You know, Big thanks to the cast of "Glee", my friends, the Goofy Goober Squad, my mother, Karen, my dad, whom I call "dude", and my best friend since middle school, Jacques, for making this possible.
Like, who the fuck was Jacques?
Don't get me wrong, I'm sure these people meant the world to whoever wrote those novels. I just couldn't relate to their sense of gratitude on such an intense level. As I've said before (I think), almost everyone I wanna thank for helping me pursue this passion project is either dead (like good ol' Billy Shakes, whose name is practically tattooed on every page of this book), too famous to even notice me (like Ocean Vuong, whose pieces in Night Sky With Exit Wounds wasted no time saving my life from extreme existential dread) or so ahead of me, they'd skin me alive if they caught me still writing in a "storyteller's kindergarten" like Wattpad (now, this would fit perfectly with my writer friends in college, who are all getting publishing deals left and right).
So, with that being said, I have no idea who I'm supposed to thank. Call me selfish, but for as long as I could remember, I had to support my own writing. Even my parents and closest friends barely put any ounces of support into my work, unless they see them published in local folios or gaining a ton of clout on social media. It sucked big time. But when I knew damn well that I couldn't dance to save my life, I sounded like a dying chicken when I sang, even my drawings of stick figures were anatomically incorrect, and writing was practically my one and only saving grace in talent and skill, I just had to keep going. I had to move forward.
Long story short, I'm still and always will be grateful for my family and friends. They've only been tolerating my writing to a dreadfully lackluster extent, and not exactly celebrating it, like I've hoped they would, but the mere fact that they don't dismiss me as a hopeless couch potato and testify that writing won't get me anywhere near my meaning of success (or theirs, in this case) is already enough for me to bring them honor here.
I'm very much uncertain that I'll make them proud at all with this poetry book, but who's to say that I'm doing this for them, in the first place?
