Making

Making I wish I could scream on the page,

And for you to hear the letters,

As they are etched,

Doused in sincerity,

But drowning in insecurity.

Numbed, stumbling fingers fumble,

Emotions meant to be handled,

With commanding roughness,

Demanding respect and attention,

Scared of being mocked.

I have begun but regret,

Urgent and immediate,

Showing wounds and openings,

So willingly and unashamedly,

With confidence I don’t possess.

Each and every art,

Told to be real and realer still,

To hoist the price up,

And hang the hook on,

In a tasteful way of course.

I don’t have that in stock,

Nor can I order it in,

All we have is what I’ve felt,

A pittance of your desire,

But at least I can go without.