I am afraid,

not of life or of opening

myself up, perhaps even to ridicule,

God knows I’ve experienced

enough of that, more than I care for,

probably less than I deserve;

I’m not scared of that for

if you’re not terrified of death

how can you truly feel alive?

 

I am troubled,

by all that I am,

the insanity in the letters,

the voices whispering gently

that this word not that word,

not any word

but them all, is to be captured,