Sometimes we fear death
and in our poems cry out—
buried deep in our imaginations,
imagining ourselves alone,
lonely and alone, these cries in poems
harmless because they’re poems.
But in life we are alone,
buried alive in life; these cries
are right in front of you; I only pretend
happiness. Nowhere near the grave,
I’m alone. Miserable. Just very brave.
Don’t bother with these poems of fear.
I’m terrified already. Right here.