The cruelty of time.
Inside an old book,
Among the folds of a damp quilt,
And locked in great grandmother's oak chest,
Are all my ideas,
All my dreams.
I have been waiting all these years,
for the time and talent to release them.
To hang them in public to dry.
Among all those moist eyes.
But we all know what happens,
to a closed up wet cloth.
Soon enough my ideas and dreams will mold.
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About waiting too long bc of fear of rejection.