what am I afraid of

what am I afraid of
if not my own judging mind
lay down excuse after excuse
cloak it as happiness
but remember
happiness in the rain on Broadway
parking a car in stress to land on a list
to get on a mic
and stand with the nerves
wrapped in sobriety
I’ve gotten cocky
tell them it’s not what I do anymore
like I’ve out grown growing on paper
but truly I miss it
wish I could write without judgement on my tail
but there she is
always tugging at me
pulling me back
reminding me some wells run dry
she says I’m full of dust
and I cough
a puff of smoke
and a dried out metaphor
call it writer’s block
that showed up in 2020
like the virus attacked something other than my lungs
what is a virus that pulls away at poetry?
that steals art to hang on no ones walls?
and if a painting crashes
you swear nobody hears it
and if a poet stop getting on the mic
you swear
no body hears it
who notices more than those that have grown silent?
how do I open a vessel
but still call it damned?