Do any of you ever get up here
with words it took you an hour just to rhyme,
start to read your poem
and suddenly wonder if it was
just a waste of time?
Does that happen to you occasionally,
or is it just me?
And does anyone here ever read the part
they wrote to someone
they loved with all their heart
when that someone now is somehow
mostly just a memory?
Can it be that it is just me?
And does anyone wish the world made
just a little more sense
and that somehow by getting up here
hope they might make some difference,
but cannot see what that difference could be?
Or maybe it is just me?
And do any of you question why you 
get up here in the first place? 
Does it feel like a matter of pride
or a desire to create your own space?
Do you wonder if the right answers
are there inside of your own poetry
hiding in plain sight where you just can't see?
Or is it just me?

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All Material is © Conrad Hubbard.