Wondering

How much time do we waste wondering what would life be like if we made a different decision? I feel as if it is a lot. Or wondering why we aren't where we want to be, or wondering why we are feeling a certain way. Are these contemplations useless if we do not make a resolution that we can stick to. I get tired of myself because I always think that this will be the last time i do this or feel this way, but what it boils down to is that it's not and it will not. I am addicted to feeling helpless as if it is a safe place or comfort zone. And it never feels as if I am scared of succeeding, just scared of failure. However, by sabotaging it by not doing what i know i should do, I already have.

Earlier this week, this little runt told me off because i didnt pay enough attention to it. It then proceeded to try to draw blood and shit on my dreams. It probably was the rudest, craziest most out of touch with reality argument. As I look back on it, I wonder why I even paid it any mind. Replaceable, and thats all I have to say.

Writer's Self-Doubt

Who am I kidding
I am following the most unsafe
thing that I could possibly think of
Not singing, not sports, not stripping
Not a police officer, not a fireman
But Writing, of all things writing
I mean there is about as much potential
as a nuclear bomb being created in 204 AD

As a boy, I used to say with these two hands
I will be a great inventor and make spaceships
and hover cars and flying gyroscopic doodads
And now my hands lay limp with a pen
Gripped between my fingers
Am I relegating myself to ideas
And the only invention that I will create
Ones on the paper, words melded together
In conquering mental robots terrorizing
The small town of Normalcy

This is utterly ridiculous
A capricorn, a technical minded junkie
Doing something that is not concrete
That is not sure to make money
That is only potential
I'm scared
So scared
and even more afraid
That I'm turning my back on my future
To follow a dream, a hope, a craving
For plot and subplot, for character and anti-hero
That I'm writing only for myself not for the benefit
Of anyone else, that i'm selfish

Someone once said that writing is the most selfish
Profession that there is,
That for one to write, one has to be caught up in themselves
Enough to not care what someone else thinks
To neglect those that are loved for some creation
That they themselves create to be loved
I try
and I try
To see another path, or a fork
Saying what I really should be doing
But it always leads back to this black marble pen
With a flaming quill out its back
Burning words into the parchment
Desperately trying to reincarnate life

My constant reinsurance, like a 3 year old
At his first day of school, just never comes
Never strong enough to make me close my eyes
And believe that I should devote myself to
Potential

There is no comfort zone for artists
Just questions, just desires, just the story
That has not yet been written