Writer's Share

My hopes lie delicately on a thin line.
To crash and burn or rise and sore,
answers held in the realm of an unread text.
Pounding heart and hitched breath,
my blood is rushing to my head.
I hate being so nervous,
I hate being so unsure.
It's not cynical when it's actually as life lessons.
Or experience,
whichever you prefer.
Shaking hands and anxiousness,
maybe I could just save myself from rejection until morning.