Behind hidden doors, I dwell.
Upon the knob hangs a bell.
Inside the room sits a desk and a chair.
You�re sure to always find me there.
Atop the desk, you�ll see a pen,
With which I write the stories of men.
Beneath a lamp, you�ll find the papers,
On which the space so quickly tapers.
I write the words that others only think,
Pausing only long enough to blink.
In the corner rests a dusty shelf,
Where every word I write hides itself.
If the doors open and the bell rings,
I rush around to hide my things.
My work is mine, and mine alone,
Suppose I�d rather remain unknown.
For one thing I fear, maybe it most of all,
And it�s not that I simply prefer to crawl;
I merely can�t force myself to prevail.
For I fear exposure and a greater chance to fail.
By Heather Erwin
09/04/2002
5:17 PM
www.geocities.com/shiara_14
