Well, What Do You Want to Do?

It’s strange. So long as no one
Reads us, no one cares, we’re safe.
We’re dull, small words in straight lines,
Set down by a small, frail beast
Caught up in a bit of mind.
We can be gifts no one wants,
Weak tea, odd lots, poems half rhymed.

No one taunts what no one sees.
As soon as we’re put out there,
There’s the risk that we’ll be mocked
Or scored as a waste of time,
Words that have no cause to call
Their own, since we are our own.
So. Head out or hide? Or both?