Like nobody is looking for me
They don't care about what I write
They don't need to read about me.
It's like I'm just a needle in a haystack...
Hidden beneath tons of yellow hay
Just somebody insignificant
Nobody looking to make my day.
Feeling sorry for myself?
Yeah, maybe just a bit...
But in no way will that ever
Make me just give up and quit.
I love to weave my stories
And make them like fine silk tapestries
And if just one enjoys my work
I will feel pleased.
Sometimes the needles are miraculously found
And needles are used for mending
Maybe something I have started in this life
Will benefit someone else...or that's depending.
Did I make it good enough?
Did I make it bland?
Did I make you want more maybe?
Come and take my hand.
We can go and read a story
And you might say, "Hey, that was a good tale."
Others might hear the very same thing
And then I'd feel like I didn't fail.
That is important to a writer like me
To know that maybe I touched someone
That they enjoyed their journey with me
And they tell me, "That was well done."