Love is such a common thing in poetry,

Or rather should I say lust?

Because truly what does love have to do

With those things that are discussed?

But my poetry is filled with pain,

My poetry flows like tears.

My poetry is neither lovely nor lustful,

For in it I pour out my fears.

I am afraid of being afraid

I am afraid of the dark

I am afraid of being left alone

But mostly, I am afraid I shall leave no mark.

I wish to write a poem one day,

that will be filled with love and cheers.

But in my heart of hearts I know,

Fear is the only thing I hold dear.