a filtered process

some may furrow a brow,

or even express discontent

when i hide longer poems

about things i extracted

from deeper inside me.


the truth is

a fear of rejection

is much more consuming

than any congrats,

or acknowledgment,

developed from any person of this lifetime.

it is not equivalent,

or more valuable,

than any stamp of approval

that washes away with time.


while prose slip out when i open my mouth,

when i blink,

every moment my ears are exposed

to the surrounding world,

they plague me with paper cuts,

therefore, i push them back in

so the wounds are only inside.


to make them public

is to make them truth.


it is an identity.

one of many, it feels.

one that only i wish to fathom.


but most importantly,

indulge in privately.



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