Landscaping fear

I am reluctant to write.
About what I know. It is
a strange decision guided
by the ambiguity of my
imperfection. So I lean out
my window to rub off stars with
my pencil eraser. And whitewash
the dark blanket of the night.
Sketch cars in the empty streets
below. I hum into the silence;
my hum spluttering into voices
too heavy to float; and so they
descend amongst my cars
and my hastily drawn stick-
figures. My trees are smudged
and the stick-figures start
popping bubble boxes with
symbols. A heart. A broken
heart. Many dollar signs. And
a little pony. There are black
mute alphabets in the white sky.
Just the V but many of them.
Everything spreads out expansively
in front of my leaning body. Half
in the room and half outside. All
finally black and white. I slid
back into my room, sat myself
at my desk and began to write.