My fears have gotten me
They put me in the place
I wish I would not be
Although I am not alone
There are many of us here
Who listen to voices of the crippling fear
And yet somehow I feel alone
Blowing smoke in my secluded dome
Fighting fears is not my style
They have a reason
They prevent us from going wild
Under the illusion of being safe
While sitting close by a fireplace
I wonder why my feet are freezing
I wonder why my heart is cold
I hope I didn’t catch a cold
But how could I?
I was protected all along
My fears wouldn’t let me outside
I stayed inside my designated cage
Always fearing the outer world
And never trying to engage
If only I could make it warm inside
I kept refilling my cup of tea
I was staking blankets over me
But it wasn’t quite the heat i needed
If only I could bring the Sun inside
Feel the burn of skin, sunbathe in light
There wouldn’t be an end to my delight
Alas, sun rays do not penetrate the wall
Which makes me think
Should I break away and go
Where my feet are not freezing
And my heart is still beating
Leaving behind shadows of my fears
Where people not afraid to fight their fears.

sometimes i wonder what it's like to be a washcloth.
once a washcloth has been greasy and worn out,
someone who appreciates its worth takes it out from the workshop,
rubs it clean
removes all the grime, the dirt, the grease, the impurity
soaks it in a tub full of soap and warm water
then laid out to enjoy the breeze
and embrace the warmth of the sun
to start fresh, to start anew, to feel brand new again.
a clean slate for the washcloth; a repetitive process until it has been worn out on its last string.

i wonder what it's like to be a washcloth.
to be able to wring out all the scars, the wounds, the wickedness
and start anew every time.

but i guess that's what makes us human.
all the battle scars will remain as a lesson,
all the wickedness situated upon us will always convey a message,
and all the pain will serve its reminder that there is a brighter tomorrow.

but sometimes,
i can't help but wonder
what it's like to be a washcloth.

Twenty-four.
A number just one before
twenty-five.
A number that signifies
one quarter
of one-hundred,
-in this case-
years of age.

I've circled the sun so many times
that time itself has begun to blend together:

Days spilled into
                       Weeks cascaded into
                                                    Months plunged into
                                                                                  years; incalculable.

I neglect to mention that throughout it all I have,
in fact,
been vaguely happy at worst and genuinely blissful at best.

And so I say to thee;
If on your birthday you cannot breathe,
If every moment is lost with ease,
I implore you, see the cost of these
things-and learn to set yourself free.