He stood watching.
From his cool wooden porch.
Groovy as it seemed.
He pays not attention to the half naked girl besides him.
He's quiet.
He lights a smoke.
Blinks his eyes.
He's petrified.
Blinks again.
Looks to the girl.
Gives a light kiss upon her cheek.
He leaves.
Still groovy it seems.
Groovy it is.
Out here.
The beings are calm with ease.
Nothing perfect.
Never perfect.
Nothing, and all to hide.
The fabulous ecstasy glides.
He reaches the beach.
He's stopped.
At the edge he looks down.
reflection inside retrospection.
Inside reflection inside reflection.
Inside reflected reflection.
I would consider that an echo chamber with no sound.
He digs.
He lights a smoke.
Then walks.
I need a new friend.
A shindig around the corner.
Everyone there.
So is the girl.
Break on through she says.
Jeweled lights.
Cloth, and beads.
Waving.
Crying.
Hair hovering.
Feathers.
hands locking.
Rivering through the brain.
Everybody knows yer name.
He's the one to send flowers to all around.
He's you.
Me.
I.
Him.
He lights another smoke, and walks.

Garrett Johnson

"Are you still writing of death?"
Yes...
Is that bad?

Just because I'm sad, lonely, and a wardrobe of black,
doesn't mean I want to die.
Nor does it mean I admire death.

It just comes easy to me.
Fear comes easy to me.
If you look deeper you will see that I write of other fears.

Being left behind.
Other peoples perception.
Negativity winning.

so to answer your question, yes.
Confronting fears is why I write.