I was scared
to play guitar
and feel the strings
bite into my hands
first like paper cuts
until my fingers
morphed into marble

I was scared
to hear myself sing
and feel every imperfection
my ear telling me what was wrong
rather than soaking in
what was right
the flaws telling my story
of what keeps me up at night

I was scared
I didn’t have it in me
never stopping to think
what “it” was
that “it” isn’t just there
it’s built
like a ****** IKEA chair
its instructions unclear
my stubborn determination
the one thing keeping me going


Eventually we get a better chair
when it’s old, beaten, and thread-bare
and has earned its right to be replaced

And I’m scared this chair will break
before I can afford the next one
but until then
will you take a seat
and tell me what you think?