Your precious butterflies of words will not stay on the page
For it is late and it is dark and time's running away
The letters blur although the faces are perfect clarity
I close my eyes no time to think only to feel and see

Am I afraid to commit my world to pen and paper
Afraid that people will corrupt and twist my people
Will they get the wrong ideas or even worse no ideas
Or from my precious words, powerful worlds

Have I got what it takes to inspire
And take the results of others' inspiration
Their handling of my characters, my children
Other interpretations of my personal imaginations

What do they see and who do they see
It cannot surely be the same as me
Do they live these stories as much as me
Can they see my worlds?

This conundrum stopped me sharing my writings for quite some time, until I got over caring about them quite so much and found other things in which to invest my self-worth.
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