There is something about expression which brings finality to word.
Fluidity hardens as the ink dries on page;
And control passes once scanned by eyes or slotted in ears.
These words aren’t yours anymore; they belong to them now.
And so the fear blankets over this assemblage of words
Contemplation of unclothing parts, to be shared for what they are worth.
But there is hesitation.
What if my sequence of words color me in ways unthought of?
As if my diction restricts the truth of my complexity.
So here I sit, each word perched on its nuanced interpretation;
Understood differently by those who meet it.
(Un)known data points creating stories through interpolation,
Punctuated by breath, insecurity and imagination sparked by silence.
How audacious to believe I could capture its intricacies;
Fear that you believe me the same.
And as I swell with words which once swam in possibility.
Words that are now robbed of movement, stifled.
Because those that should have been released are imprisoned by fear of inarticulation;
Overcrowding what little is left of coherency.
I reach this point of delirium and I choose expression:
For being silenced is a greater injustice than being misunderstood.