Bright white screen on tired green eyes.
Small black keys do not recognize,
the rhythm bashed out by my too chubby fingers.
That hate the way this uncertainty lingers.
For who am I
in the throne room of masters,
to think I could move those,
who create so much faster?
Who am I to believe that this rhyme in this space
is enough to make others feel poetic embrace?
If the meter feels wrong or the words don’t quite rhyme,
will the reader roll eyes and move on to save time?
Or is it enough to just to pound out my thoughts.
Hoping someone relates and the meanings not lost.
Not lost in the doubt that my words aren’t deep.
Not lost by the fact all that rhymes here is beep.
I believe in writing just for writing itself.
Creativity is not something that flourishes on a shelf.
So i’ll write through the doubt that I do not come close,
to the skill of those artist through whom poetry flows.
Hopefully they’ll look over this piece that’s not full
of emotion and passion, all my usual bull.
This is just me being honest and saying
That in this big doubtful world of writing….I’m staying.