What if it Hurts?
I call myself a writer,
but I rarely pick up the pen.
From time-to-time, my fingers
flirt with the keys of my
keyboard.
The relationship never lasts long.
I call myself a lover,
but I don’t date often.
Once, with no expectations.
Twice, with hopeful eyes,
then a dreadful good-bye.
Three times and it gets hard
to swallow the fact that
relationships don’t often last long.
I call myself a writer,
but I rarely pick up the pen.
I rarely tap into that place
I rarely tap into that place
deep in my soul
that houses the demons,
I fought so hard to bury.
I fought so hard to bury.
The things we deem unbearable,
possessing the capability
to defeat us,
are the things that get buried deep.
I, for one, am reluctant to
stir the dust,
and bring the demons
to the surface.
What if it hurts?
What if I can’t bear to
confront the beast
face-to-face?
What if he takes me down?
What if I lose?
What if it hurts?
So I don’t touch the pen.
Instead, I avoid it like the plague.
As if the mere touch of it
would burn my skin,
forcing me to live among the demons.
What if it hurts?
I call myself a lover,
but I don’t date often.
I have to much to lose,
because I’ll give it all.
I can’t love with half
of my heart,
and sometimes I fall to soon.
I can’t stay guarded
I have too much hope
that there is something beautiful
out there waiting for me.
I’ve fallen, and I’ve been burned.
I’ve loved, and I’ve lost.
I fought, and I lost.
I built guards, and I broke them down.
I put them back up, and took a step back.
What if it hurts?
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