It's really sad that this won't last.
My creativity comes in spurts
And I'm not ready to let it go yet.
It's possible that obsessing about its exit will spur it on
But I can't help it.
I love the part of me that sees and feels and hears and understands
But it never stays.
I wrote a story once, with the help of a friend.
At the time it was beautiful, a tragic tale of love and lies and hope and hate.
Looking back all I see is stylized garbage, with the core of an interesting idea.
I hope that's not what these end up being.
I want my prose to be cherished and seen as a testament to my love of words
My love of ideas
My love of thoughts and brainwaves.
But I'm scared that that's not going to happen.
That's why I don't share it.
If only I see it as garbage in a year
It won't be as bad as if my whole life is aware of my failure.

I hope this is good.
I hope this is cherished.
I hope I am real.