Fear is not super great.
Something I write to on lonely nights,
Asking it to fill in blanks.
It’s not something
I rock back & forth to;
teeth holding handkerchief in hand.
I’m soaked in mucus & crying
like a caterpillar who awoke
minutes before wings burst forth
to break shell,
break form.
A gestation of thought,
They whisper, “I’m caught.”
For I am sulking in the cerebral fluid
of elastic musical surrendeous fertile descendants.
It’s boastful, is it?
And tribulous?
To coat my tendrils in spoken song?
To expect others to consider wrongs?
Their license plate’s speech
as “Do It Yourself”,
no one helps,
And I cry myself to the next level.
Where architecture allows love,
I place hope,
knowing reflections
change with the days.
Dismay is a placard
I hang above my mantle.
I worship its spirit,
before crashing to floor with rage.
I break its frame
and let the glass cut my feet.
The sole grows over its wounds,
thicker than before.
I allow it to become a part of me,
so I remember, remember
how it was to be alone
knocking gilded attempts
on closed doors
of my own hard shell.
— The welcome mat out front cheerfully chants,
“Home is where my dead skin peels to become dust
to be swept up and kept for spells.”
I grip needy afflictions,
to hear my hands on my knees;
femurs say composer is me.
And there is high pitch frequency
of assailants overhead.
The fear they project is
not something I prefer to write about,
fill in lines til trudge runneth over,
yet they speak so loud,
cracking skull of yolked shell,
hoping I can make sense of
shouts from their Hell.
In the distance,
My master commands,
“Heal, boy. Heal!”
#Poetry #PublishedAuthor #Fear #Joy 
THE POLITICS OF KENDRA 