Fear:

I creep around, spying other’s glory

through shrouds of envy and spite.

I stress, I spew belligerent bile,

I despoil what feels my birthright.

 

Trust:

If you only knew what your heart could spill.

If you only could allow

those creative gales to transform your gall

into work that makes you feel proud.

 

Fear:

That gale just feels like a deadly whip

that will beat my words to a pulp,

reducing me to a limping pace

while the rest of the world can gallop.

 

Trust:

Gallop implies a race to somewhere

while your journey is yours alone.

Pick supreme, your heart’s main theme,

and you’ll romp to the place called home.

 

A poem for Day 14 of NaPoWriMo 2015: A dialogue