I’ve wondered, sometimes pondered,

if I could ever do anything else,

anything other than

                                                                                                writing

down my nonsensical words

into something approximating

a poem.

Would I be able to find anything?

Something that

                                                                                                consumes

me more than the written word?

I’ve always doubted that

                                                                                                my heart

would be able to handle

the pressures of a real world.

I’m not the strongest person,

                                                                                                my body

would collapse from the effort

of trying to hold up the sky

on the back of my shoulders.

I’m not particularly smart,

                                                                                                my mind

straining to discover the answers

to the problems daily life

throws at you,

coming up short.

                                                                                                My reality

has been warped, twisted

by the desire to scribble

words into the margins of

                                                                                                my entire world.