I say I’m a writer, but how would they know

When each line and verse I’ll never show?

Each word loops endlessly through my head

a catchy tune, not sung but said

Still, the words can’t leave my mouth

unless in hushed tones, whispers, not shouts

These thoughts are private, for only my eyes

My shyness makes me compromise

But the bashfulness is but a mere part

of why I hide away my art

It’s fright too, or perhaps guilt

for tearing down walls we’ve so preciously built

for expressing my thoughts without shame or tact

always afraid to be caught in the act

I write for myself, but now I’m here

so publicly voicing my feelings, my fears

Maybe this is where I ought to be

writing for others, not just for me