when the group refused to read my writings a scintilla of doubt was planted within me

when they leapt to read the other writers the scintilla blossomed into a bush with prickly thorns

days later the scintilla become bush has become a forest and none of the words feel right

i sit on the bleachers while they are pushed forward cobwebs cover fingers no longer writing

now i wish to feel a scintilla of hope but that is in short supply and growing lesser every day