Something In Me Suffers Unused

I still notice the hesitation, whenever I want to make something honest and immediately hear the voice that says not enough,
I still notice the hesitation, because in sensitivity gives me vision yet also makes every glance feel sharper than it is,
I still notice the hesitation, knowing the same openness that lets beauty in also leaves me exposed to honest judgment,
I still notice the hesitation, am I truly unready or just frightened of being seen unfinished,
I still notice the hesitation, while my hands still reach for the honest work anyway…

I still know flaws, are not side notes to erase but fingerprints proving a human heart passed through here,
I still know flaws, because polished emptiness has never moved me the way wounded truth has done,
I still know flaws, though I still hide pieces of myself as if neatness were safer than resonance,
I still know flaws, am I editing life out of my failures just to avoid discomfort,
I know flaws, and the page asks for something real, not performance…

I hear the old measuring habit, when other voices seem effortless and mine, feels late rough strange or difficult to trust,
I hear the old measuring habit, and it tries to make another person’s path a verdict against my own becoming,
I hear the old measuring habit, even while knowing no borrowed voice can carry what was given only to me,
I hear the old measuring habit, am I admiring them or abandoning myself all over again,
I hear the old measuring habit, then return to the sound that only I can make…

I choose making, not because confidence arrived first but because silence had begun to wound me even deeper,
I choose making, when protection asks me to hide and expression asks me to risk sincerity all over again,
I choose making, aware that courage often looks like small repeated acts no one applauds,
I choose making, can I bear being misunderstood if it means being real and living me,
I choose making, when protection asks me to hide and expression and risk sincerity all over again, as growth rarely asks for perfection, only your participation…

Watchwords:
Frightened of being seen unfinished
The page asks blood
Abandoning myself again
Silence had begun to wound me
something in me suffers unused