Sometimes I throw around this yellow ball of question

I question if I should continue writing, continue to

Express my personality, point of view, freedom of speech

I feel like I should give up...maybe my work

isn't good enough, maybe I have nothing important

enough to say, maybe I wasn't meant to be a poetess

Wasn't created with a spoken word

It's not that I have nothing to say

Writing to me is like breathing, words don't stop

Exhaling and inhaling, the day I don't have words is

The day I die, I have so much to say

It's not that I don't want to write, it's just that

I don't think anyone wants to read what I write

I don't think I will ever be great and my mom

Will never be proud of me

But I do love writing, it's a part of me, like my

Bones are a part of me, my pen is a ligament

Well, I guess that answers the question

I pick up the yellow ball, throw it into the street, and

Watch a car roll over and burst it.

Pop!