I lay the knives, sharp, on the table, flat. 
Notes of cinnamon and spices should keep the tempo light,
As I conduct the kitchen, for my dinner party tonight. 

Knock knock, they melodically rap upon the door,
I go to greet my fine guests, yet moments before,
I turn back from the handle, for I'm not so sure,
Which of the four seasons should delight my decor?

To choose only one,...

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I hate doing nothing.

The silence around can’t match the volume inside.

I abhor being bored, it’s impossible to hide.

I can’t think or focus, there’s a chaos in my mind.

When I look to do nothing, there’s nothing I can find.

I’m scared of nothing.

Now this isn’t a display of bravery against fear,

But being petrified of the unknown, of something still so unclear.

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