There's an achiness
Of little worth
In everything that's known.
Meaningless inklings
Which overpower
Value brought— Worry.
Minds weaving existence
And shaping who we are.
Doubt in maker's eyes but
Experiences for the rest.
Maybe worth the pennies
Or perhaps a priceless fate;
Etched into generations.
And there will be those rejecting—
Solidifying sour inklings
Of artist's remorse.
It is not made for them, though
Others reach out and
Never let go.