I look out at the crowd
and feel the fear of judgment of their eyes,
the shake of disapproval that this page,
the words that I say are not high,
not to standards.
I can't flow,
nor rhyme,
even making a point is hard when the words run,
for I can't find what I want
or the truth behind ideas
all I can say now is
that in my heart I feel the fear,
Fear of the unknowing and of the eyes of others
and I run to it,
Pushing it with the shaky hands, knowing
knowing that the fear will stay there for life
but in my moment of courage, I,
he who can't flow,
he who can't find the truth behind his ideas,
and follow the beet of rhythm,
may push past the fear
and maybe, just maybe
he can find, for only
a small, slim, tiny moment
the approval of those whose names he doesn't know
before judgment, disapprove, and standards
take my voice
