All the Ways I Deny the Writer in Me…

Sep 18

I feared someone would read my journal and know my secrets.
Or know I had no good secrets worthy to steal a glance at.
And, they would know I wasn’t that smart after all.
Or worse, no one would find my journal, so I didn’t exist.

I feared I’d have to own up to my inner Truth.
And then, my inner Truth would destroy my world.
Or that my inner Truth wasn’t deep enough to even devastate.
I’d have to face that writing was my Truth.

I feared no one would read what I published.
Or that someone would read it and unveil me as a fraud.
A fraud in being myself.
Or worse, that myself wasn’t good enough anyway.

I feared I had nothing good to say.
Everyone and someone most certainly has already said it.
And they had done it so poetically.
Who was I to hang out my dirty laundry so embarrassingly.

I feared that my waking up at 530am.
For quiet time to write something. Anything.
That it wouldn’t last.
Or worse, only reveal my arrogance and absurdity.

Yet, my Writer is excited, like a kid in a candy story.
She wakes me up early without need for an alarm.
She says, “shhhh, those fears aren’t real.
Now get to typing….”