Off to a Meeting.

And when it rains,
it pours,
and the words pour out of me
right about the time
there is something else to do.
And I am pulled away,
and I am sucked down,
and the words dissipate.

All I Want in an Ideal World.

I try to take myself
out of the context of what I see,
of what I hear and smell and know.
I know that I want children.
To feel the joy and frustration
of a mixed and messy and complicated
brood of family.
I also know that I don't want to work
sunup to sunset.
In an ideal world,
I'll publish my first novel.
Experience the joy of a stranger
appreciating something I fished
from the depths of my being.
Make a modest living,
enough to quit my job,
build a nice house,
with a nook all my own,
in which I will have great, wide windows
and walls of books,
and I will write,
and I will write
and I will have children,
and I will write.
And we will be happy.

Self-doubt.

I sit within colorless, windowless walls,
eight hours of artificial light
and conditioned stale air.
I am my own sunlight,
drifting in, telling of the day.
I am my own potted plant,
the delicate, chipper, yellow flower.
I am my own inspiration,
my own experiences.
I am my own desires,
feeling trapped,
knowing what I can be,
unsure of how to...be.
Words I need to express,
worming their way through and out.
So much untapped potential,
because I'm selling myself short.
Fighting against the desperate,
hungry, yearning need to write.
Fighting against the pleasure
of complacency.
Tears of frustration,
the urge of knowing
that untapped greatness,
or at least goodness,
is within me.
Sustained on the faith of knowing
where I am destined.
Hiding from the fear
that my dreams will decay in waste;
that I will wake up one day
and nothing will have evolved
from what is gnawing at me
from the inside out.
I have a feeling,
a great, deep, well of feelings,
that words are my contribution
to the world.
But is it enough?
Am I enough?
I am my own sunshine,
I am my own flower.
But am I enough?
And what will come of me
if I'm not?