wringing hands

I worry

not knowing if the future comes too soon

if the past is too far away,

never certain of the outcome

never safe in my complacency.

I cannot leap without looking for answers,

cannot speak without contemplating the side effects

of a speech with too many pauses

cannot think without running through the paces

of over-reacting-

but can I live a life undecided

when I cannot even decide who I am?

I am one who is not finished,

still learning

still yearning;

I am one who knows the world,

but lives in it anyway,

blindly ignoring and accepting in tandem

the way people are,

they way the city doesn't breathe easy,

they way that no one is the same

and yet exactly alike.

I am one who creates

and destroys

sometimes in the same breath of exhaled air;

I am one who regrets

but moves forward,

who lives,

but never forgets.

I am one who is fearful of her own fate

while not believing that nothing is up for debate,

nothing is ever truly decided.

I am a organized wreck,

a beautiful mess-

I am me;

and I am fearful

that I like it that way.