I used to write much more.
At least 15 poems a week,
Constant pouring of raw thought
To page.
Vomiting emotion
Indiscriminately.
Now it all stays down,
Deep in my mind
Where it's safe.
It's not like I don't try
To coax it out
With pretty words,
Pencil in hand,
But something refuses
To let it go
And let it free.
It's almost like a fear,
Like a worry,
But not exactly.
More like a question,
A doubt.
Something telling me
To watch my mouth
And mind my own.
My life is delicate
As it is.
My words can shake ground,
My mind could break ground,
And the last thing I need
Is for my house to fall down.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem