Tired
I want I want
To go to bed
But words, they flutter
In my head
Like watching swarms of wasps or bees
Like hearing whispers through the trees
Like waiting for a tiger’s pounce
But with no rest, no wink or ounce.
I think I’m meant to be a writer
I’m far too critical to fail
I know in person I get nervous
And my thoughts sometimes derail
But on paper it’s a different story,
One that helps me boast in glory!
But then again perhaps I should hide
My shameful and disgusting pride
Cause I’m no better than another
Cause I can stitch some words together
It means far more I’m treated kind
Than showing you what’s in my mind
So I stay silent
My silent bind
Is it for your sake?
Or for mine?
12
3
4