Working on a poem, thinking about not knowing what I want to be when I grow up, this is what I have so far. Goodness, I sound depressed. I'm not, at least I don't think so, just a little well, regretful maybe:

So many years
hiding behind the jagged edges of the truth
this life of mine silently slipped by
me watching from the sidelines
always
knowing there was more
but not daring to look for it
because what if I'm wrong
what if it's wrong
endless what if's
and thoughts of
“I'll never be good enough”:
stop signs
at every
turn.