30 in 30 Poetry Edition, Day 8

Some days the creative process feels like a game of Scrabble,
A bag filled with the unknown and unknowable.
You can pull bits and pieces from the bag,
The nonsensical and the vapid side by side.
Unfair as it is, nobody is supposed to sort the letters for you.
It’s a crushing level of responsibility,
The thought that you can take synapses
Firing willy-nilly from a brain
Hooked up to a heart
That occasionally beats more out of habit
Than from any real conviction,
And transform them into thoughts
That someone is looking at right now.
Knowing that I once thought about you
Reading these words,
And that now we’re linked through a memory.

Who can feel worthy of that?