These.
Segmented lines and semi-circles.
Hold so much weight.

Fragmented dashes.
Across a blank page.
Make.You.
Feel.

Make my-
Emotions real.

Disconnection.
Should-have-smiles and blank eyes.
Suppression.

Fear.
I know how to express.
Fear.
I rather bury it.
Fear.
I don't want to explain.
Fear.
My finger tips will do the talking.
Fear.
You're reading this.
Fear.
Holds.
Me.
Back.

You'll never know-
How this should sound.
Where I've trained my voice to shake and hurry.
To pause.
To inflict some words more harshly than others.
You'll never know-
Fear.

I will pass you a page of-
Fragmented, segmented lines,
And hope that you feel.
But.
Should I expect my language to resonate with you?

My voice doesn't sing and,
My fingers don't play and,
Maybe this won't be so beautiful to you-
As it is to look at a huge canvas filled with gorgeous lines of paint.
As it is for me to hear a poet strip down on the stage, and let their emotions speak through their words they've memorized for days because the endless string of words ringing through their mind is the only way they can understand and express--
How.
They.
Feel.

You won't understand.
Until I stand before you naked.
Clothed.
Naked-in emotion.
Letting Go..
Showing you.
I'm letting go.

Raw emotion.
Shown.
Not heard.
Not read.
Not explained.
Raw emotion.
Standing before you.
Vulnerable.