"If I'm being honest, it scares me" a poem by NPFK

I raised the glass of tap water to my lips and thought,
"I still have ideas. I might never stop having ideas."
It's a liquid battle that comes and goes like the seasons do.
It ebbs and crashes against the front of my mind
a little more often than I would like to admit.
Its presence is much like Winter in that all I want to do
is bundle up and forget the nasty weather.
"It's okay to not write them down though, right?"
Yes yes yes I tell myself.
I am my own judge and jury
listening to new circumstantial evidence that proves one thing:
I might be going crazy.
"It's okay so long as you return to them in time. Never let them not be."
This is the voice I hear but don't want to listen to as it leaves the most guilt.


I set the glass down in the sill of the window
and study how the rays bend and burn on the far wall
all bright and hot.
I know they can never become fixed;
it's an impossible task for such energy to stop and focus
and I wonder if a writer, a true writer, should possess this focus.
"This is what I fear, if I am being honest with myself."
I try and be as honest as I can with myself
but it scares me that the writers I most look up to
ended their own lives...and for what reason?
"It's the moving on and leaving nothing to show for it but a dried up puddle,"
I say out loud as if I've arrived at this point before
and forgotten all about it.