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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