I will never be fearless.
That’s not something I can say with quiet acceptance,
not something I can admit without some resentment.
The only way I can meet this truth
is with a kind of innate understanding.
I cannot love with such completeness
with the absence of fear. It’s always there,
on that thin edge between
the plains of my mind
and the abyss of my subconscious.
I live with the constant wish
that no tragedy will touch those whom I love,
that no harm will befall them,
and would gladly take all the miseries
from their beloved hearts.
It would be untrue if I said
I don’t fear for myself as well.
Fear of losing, fear of failing,
fear of any and all pain.
Some days I don’t know how I live with myself,
with that insistent voice inside calling me “coward.”
It’s perfectly natural, I’m assured,
to fear things that are of this world,
and even those things that aren’t.
But it isn’t enough,
just to be told;
I have to believe it.
Oh, I know I can face whatever is placed before me
(so as not to confuse courage and fear).
I will confront any terror with both eyes open,
but that doesn’t mean I won’t tremble with fright.
No, I won’t accept it,
will only do my best to continue to understand
that while I can be courageous,
I will never be fearless.

For More Great Reads, See:

• Love is Different Than I Thought It Would Be
• A Dream Lost
  
• An Act of Love
• Grandmother