If I could lift your fingers,
show you the ice where my page froze
and swing a little pirouette,
catch you falling
through the sting of soft things…

paradoxes catch the fall in their duality
the funny thing about the heart is, may it be so that a soft heart is a strong hard?
yet a hard heart may be a weak one?
this beaming life vessel feels sunken in from all the winds of life’s endurances
blankly staring at my page

I can only speak for my own scars,
forged in an anger that screams into words
and glowers over silence.
I can only speak for the rawness that will not let go –
the courage of the vulnerable, hunting for worthy words

misty eyes scrambling to see through the fog –
how can I know what you feel when all I have is my experience to relate
most go through life judging their fellow human family through tunnel vision
concotions of confusion with muffled voices

So tired of what is written,
I find myself diving between,
sailing the spaces, the pauses –
safecracking the combinations between chapters
and running away with a small piece of unwritten soul
this fragment of soul stills the perpetual cycling of the mind’s cogs and finds that treasure warping open into the next door

By Woodsy (https://woodsydotblog.wordpress.com) & Amber (diosraw.com)