All too nervous
to let loose into the world
the unrefined, unpolished,
inky pieces of my mind.

“But is it good?” they’ll ask,
holding up to their eye
a monocle,
squinting, then rolling:
“Nothing to see here
but theatre
from a child.”

And they resume their hunt
for art in another land.

Cold from the wind,
the ink seeps between my fingers,
escaping my palms,
no more wishing to be embraced.
And yet, I embrace.

No longer

shall it fall to the ground,

under scrutiny.

I toss it to the sky,
where it grows


the unedited wings



of an untethered heart.