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