My Fears

A little free verse. A self-doubting Prufrockian romp through the brain of a writer.

All to me for you to write, right of me to write of you,
introduce light to darkened depth, reveal within to write,
if I can write at all. If blessed, if gifted, or chosen.
Do I dare? I'm too pretentious. I'm too timid.
I'm too scared. I'm too bold, for me to write of you.
Awaits the world for voice - there are many worlds -
yours, mine. Ours perhaps? If you'd allow.
I could impress with my pressed word.
Hearts can be won with pen, or undone.
To words, then. Stuttering, stammering,
oft-forgotten of myself.
Inspiration alights!
Wholly wasted.
Pen lurches forward,
words bloom.
Aged words
from unaged voice.
I do have fears
of being ceased,
not of
wasted wonder
but
of
none.