Analyzing myself, a poem in three parts.
1.
Why am I still not ready?
How hard can it be to get a cup of coffee
And sit down at a table with four or five people
I’ve never met before,
Who happen to be LGBTQ or allies?
They’re just people,
Potential friends or acquaintances,
No need to tell my life story
No need to delve into the complexities of
Who I might be
What I might be
Why I’m afraid
To talk about it
To do anything
To go beyond the baby steps of writing.
Why I’m paralyzed
In limbo
Hypocritical
Hypercritical
Why I analyze and thing and write
But don’t make a decision
Don’t acknowledge
Don’t accept myself publicly.
2.
All this talk about
acceptance,
understanding,
love,
Scares me.
In my experience,
People aren’t that accepting
People don’t understand you the way you want them to
Love comes in many forms,
Some of which seem to contradict
What love should be.
3.
Back to me.
I am a coward.
I am unsure.
I have flaws
I have talents
I have good points.
I am vulnerable.
I am human.
I have no one I trust to talk to about my innermost feelings
my wants and desires,
or lack thereof.
my fears,
getting close to someone romantically and why it scares me,
sexuality and why it unnerves me.
So I write
to get things out of my head
and onto a screen
where I can read my thoughts
and try to make sense
of who i am,
Try to figure out
what to do.
I write.
and don’t share the potent things
that go deep
and expose nerves.
I write in phrases.
I have trouble with sentences.
they don't feel right
when it comes to no holds barred
examination of my guts.
Sentences seem too clinical.
Phrases seem better suited to conveying the emotions
that surface.
Maybe some day I’ll figure it out
[do we ever figure everything out?]
Maybe some day I’ll speak out
[will I say everything or just drop hints?]
Maybe some day I’ll act out
[go beyond baby steps and stride forward.]
Maybe
Some
Day
I’ll
Be
Free.
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