(I wrote this five years ago, almost to the day… But the sentiment is fitting for the here and now…)
Of late, the right words escape me
I can never get my what I need to off my chest
When I speak, the words are empty
So the weight remains, sitting upon my shoulders
I can’t spill my heart to a stranger
But nobody I know is listening hard enough
For who can ever warn of the danger of standing upon a cliff
Without seeing the other side?
I ache in all the same old places
Nursing old hurts I thought I was old enough to bury
But it’s scary how some things never leave you…
Even scarier how some dreams fail to bloom… they don’t tell you that a dream deferred ends with a bit of you fading away..
So it’s true, I am not what I appear to be… at least to myself… too scared to know what others behold
Why should I be so sure of the lines that define my box
When the only thing that separates a person of faith and an apostate is interpretation…?