This is the one, I whisper low,
Ink on the page with a steady glow.
My pulse is sure, my spirit proud,
I post it up, above the crowd.
Done.
Two days pass in silent scroll,
A single like—a softened toll.
My thoughts return, both sharp and terse:
Maybe this was my best… or worst.
Again I write, the spark feels dim,
The words fall out, a clumsy hymn.
I roll my eyes, ashamed to send
A piece I’d never recommend.
Done.
Two days pass—my phone alights,
The piece is trending, shared in flights.
The one I thought was shallow, weak,
Spoke truths another couldn’t speak.
The weight is held in different ways,
Some see the sun, some feel the haze.
What’s “best” is tied to where we are,
Some feel the storm, some chase the star.
So now I write with open hands,
No more demands or strict commands.
Each piece, a gift I can’t control,
May miss one heart and reach a soul.
And when I post, I don’t deride—
The worth’s not always mine to decide.
For passion’s voice, though sometimes low,
Still finds a place it’s meant to go.
