Whirl Wind There is one question, That I fear to answer. Most people would say: Animals or heights. Or death or the dark. For me, The words never seem to come out. I want to answer, I want it to come out as a shout. It seems like it refraims itself, Hidimg in the dark. Waiting, watching, For one chance, Just one chance, To come out and start playing. If I stop, Even just for a moment, The fear creeps in. Like I have handed over the power, And let in all sin. My thoughts are a whirl-wind, They are a wreck. They are my version of, The fear of spiders, Or the fear of mice. They send me panicking, They send me scared, They make me stand still, Making everyone else stare. This is unusual, As it seems. There is no diagnosis, Just like there is no cure. No one can hold my hand, Or hold me tight throughout the night. I can not be told that it will get better, And I can not be told, That its not as bad as its seems. Because, for those words to be processed, I would have to stop, So then people would stare.