Tired

I want I want

To go to bed

But words, they flutter

In my head

Like watching swarms of wasps or bees

Like hearing whispers through the trees

Like waiting for a tiger’s pounce

But with no rest, no wink or ounce.

I think I’m meant to be a writer

I’m far too critical to fail

I know in person I get nervous

And my thoughts sometimes derail

But on paper it’s a different story,

One that helps me boast in glory!

But then again perhaps I should hide

My shameful and disgusting pride

Cause I’m no better than another

Cause I can stitch some words together

It means far more I’m treated kind

Than showing you what’s in my mind

So I stay silent

My silent bind

Is it for your sake?

Or for mine?