I always wanted to do a spoken word piece. I never got to, but the closest thing was signing up for public speaking class and reciting this abandoned poem I wrote years ago from memory.
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Fear is the matador’s attire, a spider the size of a golf ball on the ceiling, a voice echoed in an empty house, the anticipated drop of a pin in a silent room.
It is both the burden and the reward to a life christened by sweat and tears.
Fear. What drives us to the wall and what smashes dreams so tall.
Fear. We crave it just to say we’ve had a taste of it.
Fear. The loss of loved ones sleeping in boxes all alone—who knew the ground was so cold?
Fear. A compilation of words so harsh you do a double take—poisoned by a whiskey shot, so taint.
Fear. It is the crawling of tiny monsters in-between sheets, sitting aside a mass murderer on the streets, voices strung on admiration so deep it leaves you weak–you’re crippled. Not by physical wear or moral tear, but something deeper that stares right back at you.
It is the fear of something innate.
A reality you base off of perception just to deflect the thing called truth.