Callused Feet

I am terrified to keep on creating; I am creating still.

I am terrified that my art will be deemed unworthy; it may be, and still, here I am, spinning magic into life with the creamer in my coffee.

I witness my sweet inner idealist want to run to the highest mountain as quickly as possible; see me here, breathing at sea level.

I imagine my own aloneness; here is my mind, my skin, my fingers, as alone as they’ll ever be, and here I am, beloved still, by multitudes within and without.

I am terrified I will not act again; I stand here in my body with my breath beneath me. I speak.

I see the time fly; I see the morning rise, She is pink, brilliant, and slow, as possible as yesterday.

What if I run now? My body will express. My soul will have its way, for better or worse.

It doesn’t make sense; who is it really for?

I’m not doing enough, saying enough; see me, enough.

No one really sees me; big breath, lift your chin, one more try.

Look who I was; I kept walking.

Look at the impossible journey ahead; look at the callused feet below.

What now? Palms up, chest cracked, on, on, on.