Scared to send,
because I’m afraid it’s no good.
I pretend
to care not, though I know I should.
Stories live
in the inner depths of my mind;
I should give
them their own rightful space and time.
Just last night,
you questioned why I don’t publish.
Doubt and fright
that they may tell me, “It’s rubbish.”
Today though,
a war, on myself, I declared.
I must go
out and show the world what I’ve bared.
Time, for me,
passes and treats me rather well.
Each story
I’ve written does not fare so well.
I bury
them alive, so no one can find
nor carry
them out of my heart or my mind.
Time is up,
I can hold them captive no more.
I fucked up,
but I can’t do that any more.
This is not,
a love poem like all the others.
I forgot
not, and there will soon be others.
You’re the one,
though, that pushed me over the top.
Far from done,
I hope that this will never stop.
Soon, my Love,
my soul will again be at ease.
Up above
these worries, I’ll do as I please.
I want just
to say thank you for your question,
a small thrust
pointing in the right direction.
