The more I read,
the more I want to write.
The more I want to write,
the more I drown myself
in other people’s writings.

An intentional writer’s block
desperately distracting myself from
the ”Where to starts?”
that inevitably morph into, 
“What’s the point?”

I am a writer by heart,
not by profession
culturally educated against exerting energy
if I am not making money
to make up for it.

(My main profession these days seems to be “worrier,”
yet I’m not getting paid for that either.) 

Why bother bothering,
when I know my likes
will never exceed my wants.
“Why bother bothering,
just for a poem or another sad song to sing?”

Isn’t it a waste,
when so many others
in this age of information
wield social media prowess (strike that) power
that inevitably buries
my infinitesimal whispering?

If a tree falls in the forest….
If a writer releases words into the ether(net)….

“Make good art,” -Gaiman and other Gods preach,
but what’s the point 

if no one but yourself
cares to look at it? 

Attempts at creation
lost in the fog
of that age-old adage:

I don’t want to be famous.
I just want to be heard.