24/07/2020
I am struggling to write
This feeling is a foreign land
I grapple with speaking
The words perish in their infancy
Every vowel, dragging, squealing
If only you could love me
I lose confidence in the words I do write
Carefully calibrated sentences
Syntax a curated maze
Deliberate, measured
A deluxe parade through my brain
Until one day
Is it art or dysfunction on the page?
Did I misinterpret it,
did I savage the tone,
do my words hurt,
or blur the image through a lens of irrationality?
Can I even see?
Second-guessing blindness
Is it understated or inflammatory?
I will ask them if they like it
I want to stand by it
But today doubt, doubt, is shuddering
If only you could love me
