To write freely is to write with fear
Always questioning who will be the next pair of eyes to scan my words
The next set of hands that would caress the pages i’ve left for print
And the next mind to indulge my heart that was left paper thin
If I were to write freely then who would be left?
To know the truth of how I feel and what I think would be a self inflicted wound
Because that would mean I would lose you.
You as in plural yet singular to some
You is the finger extended beyond my reach
At arm’s length is where you’re kept
To write with fear is to be seen
To write with fear is to be heard
And maybe even understood if
My luck is just as defiant as my innocent hopes
The irony of my delicacy
The softness of my touch comes with a price
I am not for free
So proceed with caution if my thoughts roam willingly