Fearful again, not of life though,
not of the life that has consummated the present,
but fear has entered the site of my writing. Like
a double edge sword, it cuts through the illusion
I felt so comfortable in, what am I doing I ask?
I should not be afraid to ask questions, right?
I should not be afraid to align with the truth,
however,
I will still put it in a hidden box away for myself.


Something has to be special,
this is the way to be special
(always having a
singular thought, on hand, within).