So afraid.
So afraid of painting myself with
the colors of growth.
If I do so,
I'm afraid my adolescent tears
will run down and smear the colors -
the colors that I need to grow,
and my confusion will be exposed.
Why, I'm not even sure if I know how
to accept that form;
grow into that shell!
If the transformation is supposed to come at that very moment,
then, I'd rather it not.
I want it to build its own foundation...
with its own tools.
I don't even know where to begin.
I'm afraid of becoming a big mess of art.
I want my portrait to be captivating;
representing a strong intellect -
even if I have to kidnap my fear
and cover it with a blanket,
I will.
Do I call this confidence?
Not really.
YOU ARE READING
Dear Suicide...
Poetry(#12 in Poetry- 3/5/17 |14 in Poetry- 2/28/17 |23 in Poetry- 11/18/16) Have you ever considered picking up a pen and writing to the one you fear most? Well, that's what I've done. When I write to my fears, It's oddly satisfying, because I know that...
