I haven’t done poems in a while, but a few days ago I got hit by the need to write, and my muse shrugged at how I had ideas for short stories, which is why I have written three poems and no more short stories. I have, however, been typing up some work of mine from a notebook that I keep, and it’s not all bad. I’m just posting the first one for now, because I like having some amount of padding between me and complete web silence. So, without further ado, dear nonexistent readers, I give you Worry. Enjoy!
I suppose that I worry that no one will read this,
And that if they do, they will scoff,
And compare me to authors whose writing is better,
(For there are so many authors whose writing is better),
Who weave words like tapestries, nooses, and cots,
And my writing, I know, it is not.
I suppose that I worry that these words, they’ll be forgotten,
Long after I’ve faded away,
Nothing left for them but cluttering pages, and bookshelves, and minds,
‘Til they, no longer, can stay.
I suppose that I worry that I will abandon this calling,
I (foolishly) feel that I have,
For other pursuits that hold more in store,
Than starvation and chillness,
I suppose that I worry that all this is futile,
Because who would choose these words, above all?
Nothing but windows,
When people crave doors,
To be fully immersed, instead of just glimpsing,
Some half thought that I have (for some reason) scrawled down.
And I suppose that I worry about plenty of things,
Not all of them necessarily real.