Writing scares me,
But I always wanted to try.

Picking up a pen
and streaming fears and wishes
onto paper
always seemed like such a glorious pursuit
to me.

But me? I’m afraid that instead of a flowing river of words,
bubbling with secrets and sadness,
or a violent storm of expressions,
that pours dreams and desires,
I will dribble mere fragments of feelings on the page,
cough and splutter my words,
and choke on my idiocy and pretension,

And then pick up my pen
and then pressing down hard,
scratch thick black lines of ink
through my words,
through my fears and wishes,
and right through the page.