INSIDE

The words, like startled birds, take flight,
But veer and scatter in the air.
The meaning I intend to write
Is lost before it can land there.

A clumsy tongue, a tripping mind,
A heart that beats a hurried pace.
The perfect phrase I cannot find,
A smile that settles on my face
Feels forced, a mask I cannot hold,
Revealing cracks beneath the paint.

I strive for stories to be told,
But what emerges is a faint,
Uncertain echo of the thought,
A shadow where the substance ought
To stand so clear, so strong, so true.

But what they see is not the you
That struggles fiercely to break free,
Trapped in this inadequacy.
The bar is set, a shining gleam,
A standard I can’t quite attain.
Each effort ends, a broken dream,
A whisper lost in wind and rain.

I reach and grasp, but always miss,
The compliment, the nod of praise.
A constant, hollow emptiness
Resides within these weary days.

Perhaps the fault lies deep inside,
A flaw that colors all I do.
No matter how sincerely tried,
The outcome feels forever skewed.

This constant ache, this nagging fear,
That I will always fall behind,
That nothing I can say or hear
Will leave a truly lasting kind
Of mark, of worth, of being right.
Just shadows fading in the light.