I’m worried that the world won’t care
when I slip and fall today.
I’m worried that my scraped up knees
are reason for your dismay.
I’m worried that the best I got
is not the best around.
And I’m worried that all my efforts
can easily be found
in the brilliance of others
who are better at this than me.
I’m worried that my best won’t do
and there’s a better yet to be.
I’m worried what my colleagues think
and I’m worried about my hair.
I’m worried that they’ll find me out
and throw me out of here.
I’m worried that each word I write
has already been done.
I’m worried that my company
is not your idea of fun.
I’m worried about the things in life
that good books say don’t matter.
But here I am in humanness
and stuck in worried chatter.
None of these get washed away
with a soapy self-love sponge.
They live in me and although I try,
I can’t wipe away their grunge.
But what I do may be worth to you
if you’re anything like me:
I write them down, I call them out,
at the very least I see
that these worries are just thoughts
that have piled up in time,
so I chuckle when I notice that
they’re crowding up my mind.
And when I sweep those thoughts up
instead of allowing them to roam:
I shift my damn perspective —
and I plop them in a poem.
Image: The San Jose Institute of Contemporary Art “STUFF(ed)” installation by Sofie Ramos is aptly piled high with crazy-colorful objects.Photo: Courtesy of San Jose Institute of Contemporary Art
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