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August 20, 2013

I’m afraid …

I am afraid to grow old in this place.
I am afraid that prison will soon conquer my entire mind
and my heart and soul, as well as my flesh.
I am afraid to be reminded of everything that I am losing and
only able to imagine as each day passes me by.
I am afraid to live by this forlorn regimen each day for the rest of my fucking life
to have a routine and schedule that never changes and always hurts.
I am afraid of becoming used to serving a life sentence and then being okay with it.
I am afraid that if, by something miraculous, something
good happens to me again, I will ruin it again.
And so I almost pray that nothing good happens to me.
I am afraid to watch the decadence of my sexuality and fantasy
without gaining experience.
I am afraid of becoming more and more of a nothing when I thought
that I was almost as nothing as nothing can be.
I am afraid that if I commit suicide, suddenly, they will decide
that people like me can go free.
I am afraid of hope.
I am afraid to think that I am good.
I am afraid to look at that pretty woman.
I am afraid that I do not care anymore.
I am afraid because I am looking for reasons to die.
I am afraid because, in a strange way, I feel better when I cry.
I am afraid that I have it all figured out, and it still doesn’t
make any sense.
For example: it feels better when I cry, because I don’t believe
that I deserve happiness, and also, sadness is far more intense than joy.
I am afraid that I will never feel an intense joy.
I am afraid that I am going to die before I become somebody special.
I am afraid I’ll be burned before I do anything great.
I am afraid that they won’t proceed after my death as I wish them to:
burn my poetry and spread it with my ashes
Just move on with your life and try to imagine that I feel a lot better.
I am afraid to hurt anybody else.
And I am afraid that I am not sure why they would hurt if I was dead.
I am afraid of all this contradiction,
and I afraid to admit it’s too late for that.
I am afraid that I will never finish this book, and even if I do,
it won’t go anywhere, and I’ll have just wasted a bunch of time
and prolonged my life without reason except to validate my worthlessness.
I am afraid that I will die for a stupid reason, like stabbing someone on the yard
who owed a couple of hundred bucks, and I get shot with the mini-14.
That’d be a stupid reason to die.
I am afraid that I will die due to lack of sex just when my body has hit its stride.
I am afraid that I think everything is pointless, because when
everything is pointless, nothing at all matters and I am
better off dead.
I am afraid that I am afraid to die, but I don’t think that I’m
really afraid to die,
I’m just afraid to die for nothing.
But I am also afraid to live for nothing,
so find something.
I’m afraid.
I’m afraid I’m out of control.
I’m afraid that someone will look into my mind,
and I don’t want them to stay there.
I am afraid to turn off the radio.
I am afraid that she was right.
I am afraid that I hate myself for not proving her wrong.
I am afraid that I know how to hate myself better than I know how
to love myself.
I am afraid that I don’t know how to love myself at all.
I am afraid that they will get me soon.

To tell you the truth:

I am afraid that I am not afraid of any of these things at all.

That’s what I am afraid of.

From → BLOG, Poetry

  1. A very intense and excruciatingly raw piece. The emotions you expressed are things I think everyone can relate to at some point. You had some really great lines in this one that really grasped my attention. The only “note” I’ll make on the writing itself is similar to my last critique…the use of I’m afraid becomes predictable and repetitive, I’d suggest maybe utilizing synonyms to the word afraid to mix it up occasionally, that way we still know you fear what’s coming but we get to experience it in another way. That’s just a thought though. Great job 🙂


    • I appreciate your reading of and thoughts on my poetry. The slight changes on “Death and I Flirt” worked, but this poem I actually WANT receptive, because in my mind, it’s exactly that way. This poem is to be bereft of aesthetics, because for me those fears are a dull, repetitive thud. I’d read it in a monotone, no enthusiasm, kind of empty. I’m afraid… I’m afraid… I’m afraid…
      Does that make any sense?


  2. Open and honest as always – nice work!


  3. David permalink

    Yes sir it makes sense, keep it coming Sean.


  4. I hate this place. I guess that’s more reason to just work on getting out of here one day rather than become trapped.


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