I think I'm
afraid
that I'm
not good enough,
that all
these years of work
were a
waste of my life.
So I hide
away in my safe haven,
where
everyone thinks I'm great.
Here,
there's no rejection,
no epiphany
of reality.
What if I
really am
a story not
worth reading?
What if
only
I love my words
because
I live in them?
And I'll
spend the rest of my life
pretending
that I matter.
-Zero
Every story is meant to be shared. Some are better to be heard, while some others are meant to be read.
ReplyDeleteBut then, as with this poem you shared with us, the timing seems to have been taken into account. Maybe it is why, or maybe how, we may feel the strengh of the pen, as the Heart expresses itself.
You live long enough to become the parent of yourself: the parent that you are of the child that you were.