Dear whomever it may concern,
Please tell me that it won’t always burn;
that feeling in my gut
telling me I’m not enough.
That feeling in my head
telling me to ask someone else to do it instead.
Who am I to think I could succeed?
Who am I to think I could be any different?
Another statistic pursing a futile interest,
thinking I could be the one to make it
has left me feeling tragic.
Please tell me you have the answers.
Serve them up on a silver platter
like the key in the back of the book.
Answers that give me a brighter outlook,
tell me how to remove this tumor of doubt
that lives comfortably using my brain as its house.
I’m tired of feeling like I lack ability.
I’m tired of all these damn questions.
Trust me there's no need for so much discretion!
Just reveal those dirty little secrets,
Give me all the tools, all the ingredients!
Please tell me, I’m begging now.
I swear, I promise, I vow
to use it wisely
or am I just asking stupidly?
Do you even have the answers to the questions I’m asking?
Maybe like me you know nothing . . .
you’re lost walking blindly
searching for answers that don’t exist.
Well ain't that a twist.
Guess, I should keep working hard, being a fighter.
Sincerely, a desperate writer