If My Handwriting was My Self-Respect

What if my writing, was my self-respect.

Would it be horrid, or would it be musing,

I am no one to select, you do the choosing.

My s’s are good, my l’s fine.

I struggle with A’s, coz I never drew a line.

Considering my words, tiny and small,

My peers won’t notice, me in a hall.

I would not be anyone, nobody to ponder over,

Though I would be someone; someone to trod over;

People hate my writing, call it atrocious,

They know not, that they are calling my esteem, vicious.

I do not write neatly; clearly and properly,

My letters are struck together, timidly, tightly.

Numbers and symbols,

Commas are the ones,

Over which I, tumble.

They know little, they are abusing my self-respect indeed,

Is it their criticism, concern or mere greed?

Whatever it is, my self-respect is hurt,

There is no excuse, no if no but.

Sometimes I think, Sometimes I feel.

Isn’t my content, enough to heal,

The harm that made, me colourful life teal.

What if the critics, just would have pondered,

On my usage and expression

They would have wanted to see,

How my self-respect, humiliated, had wandered.

What if my concept, would have been analysed.

Would my writing, still be penalised?

My self-respect has been suppressed,

Marked upon, counselled and made depressed.

I am pretty modest, still trying to be,

But unfortunately I have,

Lost my identity, my inner me.