I long, no yearn, for more. Indeed there is
no more to have when she is far away.
I wish, I beg to have the grace she gives.
My selfish drive to be the best is foiled.
I'd like to say she's fickle and untrue.
I'd like to call her whore, or tramp, or slut.
But I do not. She's true to me it seems.
In fact, it's me who turns my back on her.
My empty words are mine because I blind
myself to her and try to write alone.
I pull away and close my mind to her
because I'm scared to write what she would give.
It's not of failure that I'm scared. Success
is what my heart can't seem to take...or give?
A million writers cannot write at all,
a million more can write, but never well.
But I'm not scared to be inside those groups;
I'm scared to stand alone. Alone and sad.
To write something that others cannot write,
to feel what others cannot feel.
And so I do not let her guide my pen,
and risk success, and risk the status quo.
The way things are right now is pretty good.
And so I hesitate, and hold her back.
I'm making sure her power never sees
the light of day through me, or through my work.
I stifle her, I violate her will,
I keep whatever gifts she has locked up.
And all because I'm scared to let them out.
Because if I release those gifts they'll shine,
they'll light the world and lead me toward my dreams.
My dreams will become real and I'll succeed.
So my success I can create or ruin.
That choice is mine to make, and mine alone.
- completed 5pm August 24th 2002 Chicago