I'm on the stage, it's shaking.
No, it's not a stage and I'm the one shaking.
The quiver is a disease, it has me,
It comes out of my mouth in the way that I breathe.
There's quivering in my brain,
Shivering in my heart
I'm a bundle of nerves
My words falling apart.
Glowing with shame at last
I say I'm not made for this.
I don’t look at anyone, yet
I'm looking at too many people.
I forget what to say
As my thoughts collide and ripple
The quiver is working hard
It has already frozen my feet
I feel it slithering up my brain,
Locking my thoughts beneath,
Mocking me, daring me to speak but
I only say I'm not made for this.

.    .    .