I was struck with fear, maybe even self-reproach,
At the fact I was overcome with any feeling at all.

My stuttering phrases never connected properly,
And I can see the banal and inane rear their heads between every word.
I’ve been fooling myself all this time that anything I’ve spoken contains substance,
And I spent minutes self indulgent in talking about almost nothing at all.

I’ve spent each waking hour coming to terms with knowing I’ll never articulate what I felt in those moments.
My fingers traced the rim of the glass,
My eyes were locked on the leather in front of me,
Each letter with meaning becoming lodged as a choke between the null sentences.

All I can say is I picture the door swinging open,
Showing a place free from all these perilous times,
And I feel you could show me a sense of purpose,
And these rickety…