Building behind my eyelids
Screaming to be free.
My mind is a prison.
Relative to the quality of the idea, not the subject of good
Great ideas, terrible execution.
I have all the wrong words.
Should a man have no love for his work
How can he possibly expect it to please others?
I hide what I do
I have no love for these words.
Can I withstand the tide,
A stonefaced cliff holding firm, stoic against the raging winds?
Even the cliff’s stone face is worn, in time.
What hope have I, flesh and so much less?
These words are my wind.
I am not a cliff. To face the storm unmoving is to be swept away.
But to embrace that whirlwind is dangerous.
There is no gain without risk.
All I have to lose are these words.
And I can always get new ones.