A Little Rusty with Speaking

(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…?


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