Writer’s Block

I’m afraid to let go

and find the rhythm,

lose my head,

give in,

get closer to god and

science and the sting

of catharsis on my naked psyche,

slaying infectious, crawling things

that sleep behind me

and walk inside me

shadowed by neglect,

out of focus,

full of palpable

vicious intent

to see me crippled

by the doubt I pull

over my soft, placid face

and hide in,

safe I think

from risk.

But it finds me

and I shrink

like rotting things

because I am not

sustained by anything good and beautiful -

I wither

professionally.

I am a calculated victim

of yours, of life, of my slick,

fat, fabulous Fear.

So I relinquish my pen

and stay in my head

with ideas

and reasons they’ll never be written

because being right isn’t perfect

and nothing ever is.