I want to do something dangerously impulsive

Why must my poems

hold any less value than those

by "professionals"?

Terrified to be noticed, terrified to be seen,

yet terrified to die with nobody to hear me scream.

Do I want to be noticed, want to be seen,

or disappear in a crowed of faces lost somewhere in between?

Tired. Burning out.

Determined to continue,

with no time to sleep.

It has been a time

since I've written poetry.

I ponder my words,

counting syllables,

remembering how to write

simple, meaningful,

expression of thought.

Little comes to mind, and yet,

I write anyways.

.

I write for myself

as I always have; speaking

in patterns, for fun.