The doubts of the writer

I doubt

I doubt

I doubt

to be good

to be able

to have the courage

to expose my column

and let the world play with it

I doubt

to let a map be created of my veins

that my language can be taught

even though I do it basic enough to jump the rope with it

I doubt

that I can carry on as I fear that the world traps what I say when my fingers get lost in the keyboard

and my lips read as if they had shot the start.

I doubt 

that I should continue with this massacre that is

evil to me

to you

and everyone

Because the Gods haven’t blessed me

I don’t have anyone telling me I have greatness in me

I don’t have the spirit to break

to expose me to a broken mirror

and glasses in the gallery

so the universe knows what disaster is the life that I try to practice in a language that a  child of five talks with an adult

I doubt

I can get far

to standing ovations

to speeches

to lovers

to torments

that makes my eyes cloudy with tears

of celebration

of joy

of victory

I doubt that what I dream can become a reality

when the word that I write comes with a shake as a signature.

TA.