Move Past Fear

“The Shape Behind the Door”

Fear was a shadow cast by my bed,
Whispering riddles inside my head.
It wore the mask of “what if” and “when,”
And played its games again and again.

It creaked like floorboards late at night,
It dimmed my joy and dulled my sight.
It told me stop. It told me hide.
It curled up quiet, deep inside.

But I grew tired of its ancient tune—
Its stolen sleep, its dark monsoon.
So I stood up, knees all knock and shake,
And reached for light, though my hands might break.

I named the shape behind the door.
(It shrunk. It hissed. It shook the floor.)
But naming gave me breath and spine,
And I saw its edges weren't divine.

Now fear still visits, sly and slick,
But I don't flinch—I don't fall sick.
I let it pass, like wind through trees.
I speak its name, and I find peace.

For moving past is not to fight,
But to step with truth into the night.
To say: “You’re here, but not my guide.”
And walk on forward, open-eyed.

-Pope Of Love