Making the journey
From thought to word -

Grasping at nervous jitters that
Shake my fingers like the rattle
Of an infant

And telling them as firm I can -
"STOP,"
"Don't,"
"this should be easy."

Is about as easy as mending a shattered glass whole


Speaking up.
No, no. No.
Speaking at all.
It is no less than a marathon.
And the marathon is done, eventually. I've spoken. It's fine.
(Managed a smile, too. The shaking's almost gone.)

Yet the race, it remains invisible. No trophies or medals
For this marathon.

I pray to gods I don't even know.
I wish the sweating gone
falling across my skin in waves and tumbles
It's far harder to hide when they come along

(The shaking is easily concealed.
Two smokes - nonexistent. ****.
Sorted. Done.)

But talking was never meant to be medicated

Bury this anxiety. Bury it dead and gone.

I'm finished with just getting by

The world is mine from dawn.