We flee to the bedroom, the study, the café;

hounded by foreseen fears.

We don the writer’s robes and gaze pagewards,

deep into ourselves:

upon the mind’s fraught fields in their untamed splendour.

A sea of grasses jostle and jeer, the oppressive mass

of ever-growing anxieties, until we beat them back

with a black ink scythe in hand.

We tread on ink-soaked soil where

once greenswards thrived,

horrifying and natural.

We stain page after page in perilous rhythms,

pining for release, for a tepid moment of control,

lest lasting legacy never flower

as our fears of failure do.

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The sentiment of keeping your pillows hugged tight at night. The softness you accept of the rain against the glass of your window. The generosity you grant to others in giving time, a shoulder. The ca