Did it start with the Bogeyman under your bed, waiting to grab your feet?
Or was it the eerie feeling of desolation when you lost your mother's hand for a moment in the crowd?
When did this fear walk in? Without even making a noise,
When did it become okay to fear, to run and to hide?
How come the things you heartily chose yesterday are the things that overwhelm you today?
The path that seemed to be flowering roses is a bed full of thorns?
Why is the fear of being vulnerable more than the regret of never saying what needs to be said?
For those words need to be thrown out there, thrown open into the air.
It must be the desire for perfection,
or the want to please them all.
It must be the fear of looking like a damn fool,
or the need to appear stone strong.
Because why are you so busy running, when there is nothing to run from at all.