It is strange how vulnerable I feel posting even old poetry... I guess it still strikes too close to heart.
Truth
Behind my hands
my face lurks
tentative, scared, scarred.
Laughter is its shield
quivering in the silence,
every nerve jangling, shaking.
True expression is dangerous;
it is too real, too exposing,
too naked me:
one should never be without clothes. (it's unnatural)
Childhood freedom?
Gone with every don't and shouldn't.
I have my faces
each used on different occasions,
some serving more than one purpose
Not all truth.
Anxiety
I can feel my writhing spirit
wringing its hands
in desperation.
Trying to trust,
but failing miserably,
no matter how it tries.
My stomach clutches
and twists in sympathy.
Promises, promises--
Unanswered? Or just delayed?
Patience seems to be
sickening for something--
Panic perhaps?
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