an ABC poem of doubts

“anything is possible” may have been a lie

birds chirp outside my window

crying out in protest against this heat

dead air hangs in the crevices of my home

even now, when afternoon has rolled around

fear hangs here too, heavy feelings

geared to take me down, I fear

having doubts is never an easy thing

it comes so naturally to sit in the quiet

just for the misery of basking in it

killing myself with these expectations

letting the weight of my stagnation press in

mountains of shame hoisted up high

nets of stagnation I grapple with that won’t

open or tear with a rip of my brittle nails

piercing my soul, even still, is this

quietness, in which there is nothing but the

racing of my own heart, beating ferocious

silence is not golden; silence feels like failure

televised for all to see but not hear

undone by years of waiting for something to

vehemently sweep me away from my troubles

wind in my hair and music in the distance, a

xylophone symphony of my short-comings

yearning to be heard as my own personal

zenith only beams and gleams in faraway fantasy