Proclivity

What if we were honest for a moment,
everything we feel poured forth before
fear took hold and strapped us down
what would you say and to whom?

Does it even matter this noise and clatter
rolling, droll in the waves of the mind
from wake until sleep, caught in expectation
a calamity of a proclivity to hold it all in?

Why break my heart, deft in romanticism,
a defense mechanism, survival
in a poisoned womb, all insanity
inability to hide, a need to become undone?