My body’s tingles and its numbness say
That what I’ve hoped is always proven false,
That this will be like any other day.
For when I cannot slow my frantic pulse
And all my body’s signals shout the same,
Then my remembered yesterdays convulse,
Their story as familiar as my name:
That way that all my best attempts to rise
Prove themselves misguided or else vain.
The only voice that tells me otherwise
Whispers words that I can scarcely hear
Above these loud and self-fulfilling cries.
It will not shout, and yet it sounds quite clear.
Stop, other voices. Turn your fearful ear…
The Consolations of Writing 