As I sit here,

Writing these poems,

Picking them out from the void,

Where they no doubt,

Still exist without me,

I can't help but wonder,

Their effect on my life,

Or why they chose to descend,

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On my unwary mind,

Why they chose to grace me,

With their fierce emotions,

Why they caused my heart rate to rise,

Why they filled my mind with trepidation,

This body, my hands, with their impulses,

I can't help but wonder,

Their effect on the world,

Will it be dreadful,

An infection or delusion,

A false confidence,

Or will it be an inspiration,

Will it move them?

At what scale?

A good idea, something I might try?

Or is this is vital to my story?

Or will it be like raindrops, ripples across the ocean,

Miniscule and not really producing anything,

Is it contained, or does space exist, a grand story,

I probably live in a jar, but alas, whatever it may be,

May it still linger in the universe,

A mark, an etching,

That I was here,

That these words crossed my mind...