Seeds I feel I should plant, tho dubious at best,  I can almost taste fruits of the labour. The sweet and the sour, bitter and salty to some, for now not all would enjoy the harvest. But some seeds need to flower and others weeded out at the root. My already beautiful garden could suddenly go kaput, or emerge and flourish better than it ever could. To take the risk? I’m not sure if I should.

Paper and pen my new best friend, but where to find words?
Apprehensively alluding at an alluring awe of attraction whilst systematically symbolizing summations of succumbing sadness, unable to shake the thought that this is all it will be.
Words, not moments of fruition.
Thoughts, dreams that will not glisten.
Shared? I may never know.
Scared, for the events that may follow.
Is this something I can overcome?
Or will it consume me till nothing can be done.