unsettled

it presses.

it presses. 

it presses from inside my skin.  

it wants.  

it wants to burst forth.  

it wants to be free, to be seen, to be heard.

but it knows no means.  

i have no fight.  

i have no tears.  

i have no words, no rhythm, and no brush strokes.  

what am i supposed to do?

how do you sit in the silent furnace?  

how do you close the door on yourself in that fire?  

how do you stoke the flames that threaten to consume?  

consume your flesh, 

your mind, 

and your soul.  

do I even have this sort of courage? 

am I the man who will hold 

a winged hope in open hands?

will I?  

will I be free, or ever a slave to fear?

the fear whose hands taught my tight fists to choke desire?

the fear whose legs taught mine to run.

to run until that which caused my heart to leap

is out of sight, is out of mind.