Plight

The ink in my pen was created
and the forest suffered its death
so I could use my gift.
On this snowy white sheet of paper
my soul is craving exposure, a voice,
to be free and fully embraced.
Still here I sit, my mind unable to rest,
my hands moist with vulnerability.
This is my plight:
fearing your rejection.
What might you say?
That my words are dark,
they are too bitter.
Unattractive, incompetent,
their depths too shallow.
Their truths are unwanted, unnecessary.
My heart is pulsing in your hands
and you scoff at its symphony.
The words I labor over,
rejected, criticized,
discarded.
Just as they are loved, hated
wanted or unwanted,
so am I.