Superstitious

And I think
I have after all grown superstitious
of words. I have
turned them into magic spells
that fix the untold into the present
bringing it into clear painful focus.

And I trod so carefully
and was so prepared
and yet I was left balancing on the edge
hanging
but not falling. 

Stuck

I am at crossroads
my feet buried deep in mud.
I'm aiming with a crossbow
Always at the head, never at the heart.

And when I try
to shake it off,
it's always my hand
closing down my throat.

To worry

Worry is like a blanket that
You want to wrap around others
And end up holding in your hands