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?