It’s the old teenage feeling:
Not butterflies, but moths
Clamouring for the light.

Now, though, I fear
Not the lack of connection but
The possibility of one. Perhaps
This is what it is to grow up.

What never changes is
Self sabotage: automatic prevention
Of enjoyment of anything, of anyone,
Through over analysis, over thinking,
Fear of being found out, memorialisation.

I feel as though I have a caption
That tells everyone exactly
What is happening in my head
And my heart, and my
Treacherous imagination.

I feel as though I am
Completely transparent: that I cannot
Hide a single thing, even if
It is best hidden.

This will pass, though. It is not
Forever, no matter how much
It feels like it already.

When it is gone and I try
To enjoy what is left,
Will I have time to rest
Before it begins again; before
Another light appears before me?

06/29/2015

Posted on 07/26/2015
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