I always liked to live

just a step away from reality,

ensconced in those secret worlds

of pages and words and their own gravity.

So when I looked to the future,

I was happy enough to see

a future where I'd write new worlds

til my parents mentioned, "Job Security."

Then my dreams crashed down around my ears

I could hardly think of the future for fears

of wasted nights and words and tears

all for naught but the hungry leers

of debt collectors and failure.

And I was afraid.

So now when asked, "Do you know your dream job?"

I can only tell them, "Nope."

And that's the truth, but also in truth

I still write when I can, if only to hold on to hope.

Hope that I could maybe, just maybe,

if I cared enough to try,

then maybe, just maybe,

they'd choose not to pass me by.

And if I could write a published book,

and if people would give it a second look,

then it'd be fine to believe

that in this world I'd have found my nook

and that's all I'd really need.