Writing...

Writing...

Writing makes me insecure.
My wish to write a readable write is strong,
but how to catch a thought
out of that cacophony of thoughts
that resounds in my brain?
And how to elaborate
on that favoured thought,
when I have a habit
of jumping from branch to branch,
never whiling anywhere?
How I long to write in depth,
but my depth seems to have been elbowed out
by the sheer quantity of fluttering thoughts,
filling me with a fear that I'm nothing but a sigh of wind.

When I want to write, I get unsettled;
afraid that I'll never fulfill that wish
to be a writer;
afraid that perhaps I'll write,
but no one will value it;
afraid that I'll fail
to give a voice to my Self,
while I so much wish to speak.
When I pick up my pen,
it is all those fears
that make my hands tremble.

Writing makes me insecure.
It is this insecurity
that withheld me from writing,
even one single line,
for the most part of my life.
Though now that I have started,
merely a year ago,
a hope is shimmering,
against my previous believe,
that writing may be learned,
and writing may be developed.

Writing makes me insecure.
Still.
But now I nourish the hope,
for the day to come,
when I'll write
and enjoy!