I Don't Know Myself

12 strangers sit in an old coffeeshop,
Not one says a word to another.
Each has a story that ticks with the clock,
Yet one doesn't know this from the others.

I can guess at who it is that is sitting around me;
I could create their stories and plotlines myself.
But I'd just be guessing at the lives all around me.
Who sits here? I don't know myself.

I sit down with paper and pen at the ready,
Struggling to capture the words and emotions.
And as every writer knows, this is the point most unsteady.
"Just write," the voice says. "Put the pen into motion!"

"But if it's not perfect" I argue and battle,
"It will forever remain unread and up on the shelf."
So what's the perfect combination of sounds and syllables?
What should I write? I don't know myself.

I finally step out, free, and head 'round the bend
And stare awestruck at what cannot be.
It's easy to look back and see where I've been,
But tomorrow, though I strain, I'll never fully see.

"But I have life under control," I pretend and I say,
"Like a book I can pull off of a shelf."
But as I step forward and into each new day,
Where'm I going? I don't know myself.