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"May I see your work?"

Five simple words. A syllable each.

Heavy with anticipation, expectantly said

After all, an author writes to be read

But how does it feel to hand over the pale sheets of paper

To watch as their eyes scan your lines

Eyes scanning your heart, inked thoughts confined

Simply put, it feels like hell

It feels as though your life rests in their hands

Words perfectly poised; each letter planned

They read on

After bottling up your emotions, it feels as though you might explode

So you write it all down, meanings hidden in code

They finish reading and look up

You feel sick

Time wanes on: Tick, Tock, Tick

Well, what do they think?

"I guess, it's okay."

Okay? Okay! Really... that's all they have to say?

You thank them for their input

This is what happens, when one tries to share their heart

Where was the warning? The stop sign at the start?

You crumble up the paper

Why is it we live off our own self-esteem?

Needing the praise of others simply to breath?

The emotions are bottled up once more

You grab a pencil and paper anew

Thoughts become ink encased in a parchment tomb

'Five simple words. A syllable each.'

Crack your knuckles; mask it up with a smirk

After all, the world will never stop asking, "May I see your work?"