Afraid.

I’m afraid.

I make words appear on a page
I try to write, stage by stage worsening
burdening the soul with failures burgeoning.

Inverse to sense writing appears to be
perversely immense, too intense to please
compound curses assail self from self ceaselessly,
does every error further decrease me? No, Say I!

The Heart is strong! The Duende alive,
the muse sings her song
the Angel guides,
and the Universe wills
that my doubtful fears onto pages spill.

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