This poem in me is lonely,
For it has no company
Of other fellow poems.
This poem in me is restless.
An anxious child wanting to be set free
And live!
For this poem in me is tired of being held captive
In the prison of its creator’s mind.
This poem in me is ready.
As ready as it will ever be
To escape,
To express,
To inspire,
To breathe!
Still, this poem in me is afraid.
Of you.
No offense.
Afraid of you and what you’ll think of it.
Afraid of the consequences
Of its very being.
But this poem in me is caring and friendly!
And has only one thing set out to do.
This poem in me wants to change the world
And become the poem in you.