By Tim Sweeney
You can always see
where doubt has been
when writing with a pen.
Scratched out words
as if they itched,
or a single line
you neatly stitched.
Pencils leave
the scars of stories,
un-write our lives,
“what-if” our glory,
never to be praised or panned,
our pink Eraser
moves the hand.
Dead-lettered heavens
spell our doubt,
a thousand novels
all crossed out.
What chapters have been hidden?
What almost-worlds
of words un-written?
Here is my poem,
neatly typed,
and completed.
Now,
can you see the words,
the lonely things
that I’ve deleted?
I’m Tim Sweeney. Major: Forest Management.
I’m much better at not writing than writing, self deprecating than touting. However, I will say I absolutely excel at not sleeping when I should (while somehow accomplishing nothing!). My favorite days are the chilly grey Autumn ones when a warm drink feels just right.