The closed fist of accusation is unable to think, feel or hear.
Specifically if it is wrapped in a glove of fear and regret.
But here I stand, with open hands, open eyes, an open heart,
Listening and breathing and knowing.
There is nothing wrong with me.
I am simply me. As I’ve always been. And always will be.
Self aware, and becoming more so every day.
My insecurities have very few answers.
But my will to be whole in the face of unmet needs
Sits atop my own deviance and smiles.
I seek the impossible, because the word says, I’m Possible.
But as the possibilities work themselves out,
I pour sand in the holes with these words.
And dream of a future beneath them.