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Poured my heart out
line after line,
going well
But when I
got to the last line,
a hesitation,
a sense of realism -
something about writing it down -
washed over me
I sat there,
unable to write it
because once I do
I can't go back,
it's out there

Thinking
What if
my family finds this,
or my friends, or teachers,
What if
this admittance
is wrong about me,
or cuts the tether
to a force, to a life beyond life,
to a life at the end

And then I realize,
this is me
What am I so ashamed of?
Why does my personal own
matter to others?
But most of all,
how can I believe
in a force beyond
that doesn't accept me,
that doesn't accept
how I was born, made, shaped
that I didn't choose
to feel this horrible
that I didn't choose
to be so afraid
of what others would say,
of my own soul,
of my spiritual death

I long for
the personal connection to Him
that so many
are able to achieve
yet, how do I know
His own acceptance, creation
when His own inspiration
says quite otherwise