The Ivory Owl

“Pieces”

Writing is what I’m good at
I don’t have to think about it
I don’t have to find inspiration
Put a pen in my hand
Anything will come out
I just start moving my hand
Letters turn to words
And the words turn to poems

But I am scared to write
I’m scared of myself in a way
I don’t know what will come out
I don’t know how much I’ll reveal
That frightens me to death
I wonder who else will read it
I worry that some of it will be misunderstood
I’m afraid that I’ll confuse others

My mom admires my lack of inhibitions
Ever since I was little, I've had my own mind
All my life I’ve brushed off embarrassment
I don’t think I’ve ever really been nervous
I tend to do what I want and say what I feel
For the most part, I’ve been fearless (heights are an exception)
I’ve always had a deep sense of self
And I tend to take my own paths

I guess that’s what I fear now
What if I say too much or not enough
What if I babble on and on
And I am the only one who understands
I know everything I want to say
I have many ways of conveying my thoughts
I pray that they are not over-thought
And I hope that people see all of me, not just a piece

I am not always happy
I am not always sad
Most times, I’m simply content in life
I am not peppy and perky
But I’m neither dismal nor distressed
One poem will not show who I am or what I think
They need to be read as a set
My pieces are just that, little pieces of my life