The silence is deafening
The blank page blinding
I’ve stumbled out of the forest into a clearing
And I don’t know what’s supposed to happen here.
I managed to write about the benefits of plastic pipes
Yet I’m terrified to write anything about me.
I believe for a moment in the need to offer
Only a shiny sellable self.
I don’t believe, for a moment, in the
Self that sits here and shakes.
I have a dog now.
He believes in me, I think.
I don’t want to talk about me
Because I don’t have the answers to
The questions that will come.
I’m blindfolded walking a precipice.
The only compass I have is trust.
Following the tiny sparks where they flicker
In my heart.
Dare I believe
That if I look after myself
My self will look after me?