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I have these
moments
of self doubt.
So I censor the emotions
that would overflow out,
stifling my effervescence
like a knife blade skimming froth…
spilling it
like brews of malt on tablecloth.
My poignant thoughts
are wasted.
Meditated on
intended to be tasted by the world,
but I hold back
like a man scared of commitment
when he hears
her first
“I love you,”
but pretends as if he didn’t
with a “Huh?”
and blank expression…
because that intimate connection
would leave him vulnerable…
and he’s not ready.
This fear
won’t let me share with other spirits
on that level.
I attempt to,
but a lawless interloper is my devil.
Yes,
my ego intervenes,
concerned with how I’d look,
or how some things
would seem
before the eyes and ears
of others.
Is the Kool Kat getting soft?
Have his rough edges
been rounded?
In my youth
there was a cost to being THAT truthful
surrounded by cannibals and predators,
‘cause dawgs eat dawgs!
Deep poets
smelled like appetizers.
Had to hide that side;
embraced the stoic.
Became the Edward Nygma:
A close-mouthed,
cryptic figure
planting hypnotic suggestions
“I ain’t fukin wit dat nicca!”
Old, ingrained habits
die hard
like O.C.D.
Still preventing me from being
the fine artist
I long to be.
That unfiltered voice that speaks
to human hearts
so honestly
it imprints itself
upon your DNA.
-HymnAgen
