Sometimes I think,
And I almost convince myself
I should write a book.
I imagine my words transformed
I imagine my dreams of old faces
and long lost romances realised
Yet a fear holds back
the river, the fluidity
of unadulterated creativity.
Because they say you should write a story
worth telling, one you would want to read.
I ask, what if the story you wish to tell,
Is the very one you wish you were living?
The faces and romances in my dreams
would play out on paper and pages,
instead of on concrete and skin.
I ask, would ink, typed spaces and an editor’s scrutiny,
Write off the possibilities which rest within
the crumples of my pillow?
Would the consumption and criticism,
Consolidate my life as it is and isn’t?
Sometimes I falter and worry.
What if the story worth telling
asks for too much of you?