the Door is as old as me.
Sometimes I chip at it,
And let a little through before I
Slam it shut, and then I have
A story, or a poem, or a shred of something
Bigger, which I discard.

i Know there is more behind it.
An ocean of
Self that I can never let through in case it
Drowns me and smushes me like a
Bug but mostly I’m just scared that
There won’t be anything there.

i Want to open it.
To know that I have
Something worthwhile in my
Gut that I can use to finally
Create something worth something
But I’m also scared that I never will.