FEAR

After listening over and over again to "FEAR" by Kendrick Lamar, I sat down and let my pen bleed as I was inspired.

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I think when it comes down to it, the length and breadth of this wide range of discussions narrow down to this simple conclusion: YOU'RE SCARED.

Yes, just like everyone else. Regardless of the fangs in your dentition, the fierceness of your countenance, the roars, the cheers, the applauds and commendations. YOU ARE STILL SCARED.

Scared of failure. Well, that fear is pretty prevalent; but more so, I think you're afraid of how it appears on your face. You really don't know how to face it. Do you?

Scared of these faces and the fact that you have to face 'em. Or these stages: cameras flashing, spotlight shining, you're on the spot with a million and one eyes staring, waiting for you to surprise 'em but YOU ARE DEADLY AFRAID OF SURPRISES.

Like your lady calls, hey baby we need to talk. Then you go speechless. HOPING THIS ISN'T ONE OF THOSE TIMES YOU HAVE TO MAKE PLANS ON LEAVING ANOTHER UNBORN BABY BREATHLESS.

You are lying breathless, though your heart pomp with great vigor yet each flirting breathing is simply wasted. You know, they say EVERYBODY DIES YET NOT EVERYBODY LIVES. And you are so afraid of that statement.

Being a disappointment is terrifying. In what light will their vision of you be captured when the lens of everyone is focused on the crimes you've committed.

And it's so easy for you to be deceived. That agenda is not so hard to achieve. The serpent and the womanly wiles of eve. That forbidden fruit is enough cheese to ensnare you.

No solace in the palace of your mind. Plagued by a plethora of preposterous pleasures. A thousand by your side, ten thousand on your right hand, but a million monsters reside deep inside.

So your scared of foes, attracting woes, sheep clothing on wolves, losing the humility you never really had. With a fist full of air, you might still think you have the world at your grasp.

YOU'RE SCARED of walking in your own shoes, what else can be expected when you keep selling your sole (soul)

YOU'RE SCARED OF YOUR OWN WORDS. How sharp their edges become when you strongly feel the urge to make a point. Thrusting those tips likes a sword through the heart of your listeners: DEATH BY A THOUSAND CUTS.

YOU'RE SCARED THAT THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT. Blames bourn on your neck like a cross. Plus the furious flames of infamy isn't the kind of victory, I mean notoriety you want attached to your legacy.

Your flaws will make them yawn, so cliché, probably why you keep them to yourself. But nah. YOU HAVE PROBLEMS ON STEROIDS, ALL TIME HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPS LIKE MAYWEATHER. So scared, you spineless back forces you feet to flee back with the speed of light at the sound of fright

You see it, don't you? Her gaze pierces through you eyes so you look away, her pointer pounds on your chest. She's giving a warning and you can't just ignore it. The unspoken goes like: dude your such a coward, YOU'RE AFRAID TO TELL HER HOW YOU FEEL.

AND YES, YOU'RE SCARED to tell her you love her, to tell him you're sorry, to tell 'em you've been wrong for so long.

These may mean that you cease to belong anywhere except the grave. And that place is a constant reminder that this place, despite the bliss it may afford, is really not your home.

It feels like standing on the brink of death, AND YOU ARE SCARED TO THINK OF WHAT'S HAPPENS NEXT IF YOU TRIP OR MISS A STEP. If only God can judge you, then what lawyer can plead your case.

The only solace there is lies in the sparkles in their eyes when when their cheeks crack a radiant smile. Or the current flowing from their fingers, when it connect with your, holding hands. Or the heat in their arms wrapped around your frigid frame in a warm embrace.

BUT YOU'RE SCARED... TRUTH IS, I AM SCARED... that when these fears are no longer fiction the gift of their presence will cease to exist.

When it comes down to it, the length and breadth of this wide range of discussions narrow down to this simple conclusion: I, IHUOMA STEPHEN, AM SCARED OF BEING ALONE.

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