I worry about writing, I worry when not.
I worry too much, I worry a lot.
The past I feel and the future I see.
Factor’s deduced and nothing’s free.
Can it be afforded, an unknowable time?
Can life be spent on rhythm and rhyme?
Can I feel without getting hurt?
Can I grow without eating dirt?
Chained to my pen, the outside looms.
In dusty volumes this life entombs.
Can pages torn be chapters shared?
If a binding’s broke should fate be dared?
Sheets to the wind, covers tossed.
My quill floats off, I am lost.
Paces excel and alter trips forgot.
Will the sunshine burn, I worry a lot.