I was open before you,
No passwords, no keys, no locks.
I was unvarnished and credulous -
My heart was out, my soul had no blocks.

I was stark naked before you,
Without shyness and ceremony,
Not covered by lie, off laws and rules,
Either in passion, or in agony.

I was before you all as I am,
Every bit of me, of my body and soul.
I awaited. And I'm really tired.
My body's petrified in whole.

Blood within my skin
liver pluck and lights
appendix to beating heart,
every part, wants you
needs you to know
I am ready for us to begin,
it is only my tongue
a restless useless thing
which cannot tell you so

I’m not sure why I feel bad,
but I do.
A shy human,
I fear that my silence will speak louder
than my heart ever could.

I’m not ignoring those who liked,
loved, commented, reposted—
I see you, I do,
but my shyness keeps me
from finding the right words.

I should thank them,
but I’m stuck,
swallowed by my own reluctance.

I’ve been here before,
hesitant to share what’s not perfect,
scared it won’t fit the mold,
so I keep it hidden,
a secret between me and the page.

It’s easier to just press ‘like’,
to let my words stay trapped behind the screen,
than to find the right ones
that feel big enough to match their kindness.

I could message them, privately,
but that feels worse,
more intimate in its awkwardness,
and I’d only wish I could say it better
where they all could see.

So here I am,
apologizing in silence,
for all the gratitude
that never quite makes it out.

cold, blue skies
crisp air
and sun in my eyes
breathing deeply amongst the crowd
I feel like an installation
in a hotel lobby
or a decorative vase
with dry arrangements

empty yet amused eyes
peer beyond me
while I’m duct-taped to this pedestal
nailed into a wall
the frame of a painting
sitting in a display case.

Fragments of people,

with their words and their faces --


their shyness exposed.

My company ,
Is home.
Though others fill
My battery ,
True company,
Is alone.
Taking pleasure
In silence ,

Cosy in my dome.

hold me
for but a moment
less the dew
be scarred

for to
clutch me tightly
is to stop
my life

the hop
of the sparrow
that dared to
come near

The famous writer

is awfully shy, no one --


attends to his clothes.