And the fear I fail you in the end.
Isn't it something that I can be scared of the simple letters.
But is it sin to be infected but human nature ?

Is my life a tiptop in the wooden floor?
Or is it a slam on an open door?
Have I pour it out intentionally?
Or have I act as if I'm a weak tree?
My mind put a dare in front of me
Filling what's lacking as if my enemy
It's definitely some sort of horror
But is my walk at stake, I'm not sure
I see questions come and go
In the night sky, in the wind blow

Who knows everything? No, not me.
I am just a shadow of a tree.
I am just a feather on the wind.
I am just a pebble on a beach.

Who knows all the answers? No, not me.
I am but a fleeting memory.
I am nothing more than just a dream.
Juat a drop of water in the sea.

Who knows why we're here? No, not me.
I'm the last to know, the last to ask.  
I am just a word stuck in a mouth.
I am just a silence of the  grass.

If you ask who this is,
It's not important.
That a man has a name,
What is its purpose
But recognition?
I don't care about the hate,
But I don't want praise-
Yet, I would hate to leave you in confusion.
The double edged knife,
When the answers hurt us both.
Perhaps it's better not knowing.

I have an answer,
I had one prior to the question-
So, why ask?
I would rather wonder
Than assume to know fact,
Even if I am proven wrong.
Even if it is painful.

I fear at times that I don’t know if my true self is still within me
Sometimes I fear she’s gone away
Sometimes I catch glimpses of her
In poetry I have saved, yet no one cares to read it, at least not fully through
I understand what Kurt said in his last note
Needing to be unfeeling, in desperate attempts to regain enthusiasms that were once had in years of early childhood
I feel utterly alone most days
Many years I have yearned for something I do not even know what is
What am I without my writing? What am I with it?
I can never write consistently, I can never predict what I will feel from one day to the next, yet many days feel the same
And there lingers the same utter pain
Writers block is an unintentional passion of mine
Fear is my best friend
Sadness is one of my greatest companions
Nostalgia appears several times a week
Anger eats me alive
Am I anything but a mere tragedy? A copy of other poets who have lost their minds? Am I original enough? Why must I feel the need to be so unique, to over explain everything I have ever felt?