I always liked to live
just a step away from reality,
ensconced in those secret worlds
of pages and words and their own gravity.
So when I looked to the future,
I was happy enough to see
a future where I'd write new worlds
til my parents mentioned, "Job Security."
Then my dreams crashed down around my ears
I could hardly think of the future for fears
of wasted nights and words and tears
all for naught but the hungry leers
of debt collectors and failure.
And I was afraid.
So now when asked, "Do you know your dream job?"
I can only tell them, "Nope."
And that's the truth, but also in truth
I still write when I can, if only to hold on to hope.
Hope that I could maybe, just maybe,
if I cared enough to try,
then maybe, just maybe,
they'd choose not to pass me by.
And if I could write a published book,
and if people would give it a second look,
then it'd be fine to believe
that in this world I'd have found my nook
and that's all I'd really need.