They throw daggers at the walls of the glass house.
Nothing is staggered or well mannered
when you choose to wake up like none of it matters; you left it all out. I write it all out. It’s not the time to fall now. I know my feet won’t fail me.
I know you could walk the trail that I leave
and see it all differently than me.
The beauty of being able to create meaning
in everything, as it shapes the way we breathe.
I am far from living on my knees, or crying in my sheets, asking life “won’t you please send me to relief?” I am taking what I need.
And they could never say I was ungrateful for a presence in a time of grief. I was not born from greed. The hold and the release.
Like releasing energies that ask me to do anything but be…me. And believe me, you might reach me in a way that challenges the intent behind the hand you extend. You might remind me to bend and remain unbroken. To be myself, out in the open. To always keep hope and… never lose focus. Much has been and will be, surely noted. They reside in the cracks of the cracked glass house, and wonder why they imploded. I live in the motive of the spoken and unspoken. That’s what gave me the notion to claim my importance here, wherever we are.
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