I didn't know

that it would be okay

to write anything,

that anything I might write

would be okay.

I thought there were rules,

judges and juries

whose word was law,

truths that were self-evident

to everyone but me.

So I tried it that way:

stiff formalisms

over trite ideas,

maudlin emotions

in rigorous rhythm.

It didn't work.

But I thought it was me

who lacked some gift,

some missing piece that left me

with just a vocabulary and no voice.

But all the time

it was me robbing me,

letting fear, and the contempt

that fear hides behind,

keep me closed up inside.

The laws were mine.

Thou shalt not question.

Thou shalt not feel,

or at least, not let

anyone know that you do.

So my secret is out:

I doubt;

I fear.

Let the sinners within

cast the first stone.