The First Fear, #144

The first fear, you fear
you have no guts,
that what you have
to say inside
will go unsaid
on the outside,
that your words
will be pabulum
or worse,
old peanut butter,
stale and sticky
and never quite speaking.

The first fear, you fear
you won’t find time
in your busy life
to devote
to something
so inane and useless,
something that promises
to save no one,
to love no one,
to create not one
iota of wealth
for the masses.

The first fear, you fear
you’ll have nothing
to say, that you’ll sit
blankly in front
of a blank screen,
staring off into the darkness,
and though your hands
will move to download
porn, music, video,
they will not lift
a finger to slap
the stagnant keys.

The first fear, you fear
no one will listen,
that once you get
passed your fear
and speak,
say what you’re thinking,
that at the other end
will be silence,
a long empty
void of peace,
no feedback,
not even a backlash.

But the real killer
is boredom,
the force
that keeps you
pinned to your sofa,
comfy under
your blankets
and unwilling to risk
it. For what? Someone
anonymous to read
or listen
and never say nothing?

The real killer
is inertia or gravity,
the forces that pull
the fat down
over your belt loops,
that make
the take out so yummy
and tell you walking
outside would be
a pain in the ass,
simply too much

The real killer
is this body,
this always wanting
more body
that begs to be stroked
like an ego
and fed
like cattle,
like a slow moving cow
chewing its cud
and mooing indifference
for your wishes.

The real killer
is work, and all its
hard choices,
the projects it projects
in front of you
and strains it places
on what would be
friendships. Work,
with its ambivalence
to your time
and the lines
you should be writing.

They say
after thirty days
it’s all habit
and the first hump
you overcome
is the hardest.
I say bullocks.
The skin that falls
apart does so
daily, weekly,
as often as you face it,
every start is a struggle.

They say
it’s a love thing
and if you love it,
it’s not really work
after all.
I say bullshit.
The mountain
is still a mountain
no matter how much
you long to kiss it.
The drop still drops
off like a cliff.

They say
you’re cute together,
you and your artwork,
meant for each other
and looking
positively effortless,
you’re one of the good guys,
at worst, conscientious.
They don’t see
the devil that rises
up from the ash
to eat you each night.

They say you’ll
die like an artist,
poor, broke, penniless,
surrounded by your work
and end up restless,
lonesome, probably
arrested. In this,
they may finally speak
a truth. What use
is this world
to the ones
who reflect it?



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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