Tuesday, 24 February 2015


If no one reads it
Should it exist?
Should it have been written
If it gets dismissed?
Is it a waste
Of paper, of time?
If not then why
Does it often feel a crime?

After all there are only
So many hours
Days, lives are short
Responsibility often towers
Above me
A shadow dark
And it seems so selfish
To begin to make a mark

I am paralysed
By the fear
A confusion of worth
For my mere
Feeble wordplay
Pithy rhymes; For is there
Anything my verses say?

What do I do it for?
A need to pour
Inkblots of my mind
Into every word I write?
Or a hope I'll hit on
A phrase that will delight?

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