Instead of sitting staring at the screen,
I should take pen in hand and ink a page
Or more than one. If I do truly mean
To make myself a writer and assuage
The guilt I feel, give voice to the rage
That swells between my arms–too thin and weak
To do much to avail against a cage–
Then I cannot let myself be so meek
As to withhold my voice. Of fear I reek,
I know; I smell myself. Yet I am keen
To make of myself more, and I will seek
Some way in which my value can be seen.
But I cannot command that others look
At what I scribe on screen or in a book.

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