I fear ego.
Do I fear it too much to see it?

I fear conceit.
Do I abuse myself too much in effort to avoid it?

What is it that I crave?
What eye do I desire?

What rhythm moves me so?
And does the feeling hold me, thrill me?

Though the night is dark and cold,
It’s not the wind that chills me.

Would I choose my judge?
Would he be too kind?

I justify the search for satisfaction.
I fret; I do not satisfy.

Is it right to judge the world?
Is it our responsibility?

As my skin grows dry, and bones grow old,
It’s not the wind that chills me.

It’s not alright to be yourself.
You have only what no one wants.

I won’t get very far.
I’ll move neither swiftly, nor surely.

Be annoying quietly.
You can’t know what that tells me.

I looked back. How far did I see?
It was not the wind that chilled me.

Should I fear the chaos I love to feed?
What denial is enough to stave off greed?

I recoil in terror equally
From ego or mediocrity.

He likes the sound of other women.
I’m electric with insecurity.

As I take the thought and let it in,
It’s not the wind that chills me.