What is fear, besides a word?

Born from a sprinkle of doubt,

nurtured into something massive,

bigger, more important, than it deserves.

It is selfish, demanding time,

precious, irretrievable moments that

belong elsewhere – to love, to people.

It finds the richest soil

in insecurity, takes root and thrives.

The weed’s presence is not welcome,

yet the gardener lets it grow.

He will not spray it, nor will he pull it;

rather, he feeds it water, gives it sunlight.

It is better, he reasons, if I can see it grow.

 At least then I will know what it looks like.

But the moment he attempts control

is the same moment he loses it.

Fear, you are welcome in my garden.

You may peek through the soil,

sprout up and bloom. But I will not watch you,

I will not calculate your next move.

I have far too many flowers to survey instead.

You may fight for my attention,

reach for it,

scream for it,

but you will not get it.

You are welcome in my garden,

but you are not

my garden.


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