Sometimes I think,

And I almost convince myself

I should write a book.

 

I imagine my words transformed

into stories.

I imagine my dreams of old faces

and long lost romances realised

in print.

 

Yet a fear holds back

the river, the fluidity

of unadulterated creativity.

 

Because they say you should write a story

worth telling, one you would want to read.

I ask, what if the story you wish to tell,

Is the very one you wish you were living?

The faces and romances in my dreams

would play out on paper and pages,

instead of on concrete and skin.

 

I ask, would ink, typed spaces and an editor’s scrutiny,

Write off the possibilities which rest within

the crumples of my pillow?

Would the consumption and criticism,

Consolidate my life as it is and isn’t?

 

Sometimes I falter and worry.

What if the story worth telling

asks for too much of you?

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