Cascade

Why?

I keep a small black notebook
In which several words I jot
They may not make sense to you
They're the vague ideas I got
I'm obsessed with poetry
And a poet, myself, I wish to be
But the ideas in my notebook
Are left as they were by me
Will they be beautiful poems one day?
Like the ones I continually read?
Will they be loved by strangers?
Will they be planted in their mind like a seed,
From which will rise deep thoughts?
Will they be cherished by people like me?
Or by people of all sorts?
To let the meaning sink in,
Will they take a moment?
Will they slightly part their lips in awe?
If they knew me, what'd they comment?
Will my poems bring a smile on their face?
Will my poems make them shed tears?
Will my poems comfort them on gloomy days?
Will my poems help them face their fears?
But how am I to know this
If my ideas remain in there?
To trust my ideas and poems
And myself, I dare
If too scared I am
To know my poems' worth
Ages will pass and pages will wither
And the book will be covered in dirt
And hence I decide to pick up that pen
Sit at my table, scribbling poetry
Writing, solely because I wish to
Regardless of if anyone will ever bother to see
Indifferent to whether they are good enough
Because I think to myself after all,
It is better to write them down
Than not writing at all
And I remind myself,
We would never have known
That there are stars out there
If they hadn't shone.

                                                                                                               -Ayana