“What gives me the right?’ 

The question plants itself inside my head 

and weeds begin to grow.

I have no certification,

no special training, 

and no pat on the back to prove my worth.

So what gives me the right to speak as if I know what I'm doing,

when really, I’m walking blind?

I am often the one to cast the first stone upon myself.

Out of self-preservation, I prevent embarrassment and the red-hot pain it brings,

bubbling across my skin,

and boiling my pride set deep within,

causing me to vomit up excuses

with adequate evidence,

to warrant the dismissal

of your thoughts 

in regard to words, I have previously said.

I am too concerned to make a claim, 

even though I have plenty in my head.

Too concerned that I'll look back and I’ll be

wrong. 

“Wrong decision!” 

“Wrong move!”

Too concerned that my future credibility will be stained with patterns of unwarranted opinions from my youth.

I talk a big game about the ranks of powerful women I look up to,

but every time I reach for a rope of opportunity, to pull myself up onto,

I use my other hand 

to shoot myself in the foot.

Because I’m too naive,

too young, 

too unimportant.

As I slide back down,

I’m left with rope burns,

and doubt.

I tell myself that I'm staying humble

but the stream of humility, slowly

Drips

Drips

Drips

into paranoia. 

And paranoia is no stream.

It is a hurricane.

Bashing into dams of confidence, and ripping apart the facts I thought I knew.

So I repair the damage in my head with a tar of eloquence,

because eloquence is equal to excellence.

Shrouded by false knowledge,

My insecurities go to die.

The more vocabulary I amass,

the more muddled the line between myself and excellence becomes.

I am the dictionary’s dummy,

And it my ventriloquist.

But even at my most solid,

my wittiest,

my fanciest,

I'm still buried under the weeds of my doubt,

Asking, “What gives me the right?”