Centered lovingly in my being–arching, flexing.

Twisted as a weed might smother a flower, stealing beauty and purpose.

Embraced as truth of all that’s known. Nevermind how much I’ve grown.

Don’t know another way but to stay.

Insecure, drawn in, weary of what might be, shouldn’t be.

Falling down. Fall. Down. Tumble. Tumble. Down.

Drowning with life while suffocating in death.

Breath of certainty, exaggerated and askew.

Worse is knowing what’s wrong, refusing to mend.

Worst is knowing my way out, yet not walking that way.

Centered bitterly in my being–

feelings that loathe a sense of hope. Of purpose. Of maturation.

Fight to discourage with words, deeds…supposed actions.

Break free when a light is shown, for it is always shown.

I may think it’s not as denial lectures–

crash through if I dare. Only I know the exact point to be spared from despair.

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Submitted as part of Jingle’s Thursday Poets Rally Week 31

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