wading through the muck
trying to find the courage to stand and speak
without the crutch of my journal
and its scribbled notes

I want to reach deep into my gut
and touch my heart, still beating as you hold it in your hand
dismembered yet still warm
what can we learn from reading the entrails?

what does our own gut,
swirling mass of primordial ooze
the part of me that is an ecology of microbial not-me
tell me that my revered mind cannot?

because "our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate;
our greatest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure"