Protecting a soul

camo maybe

There is a deep sadness that begs to be ignored in a way that’s consuming.

It’s the kind that by the time you recognize it, you’ve already sunken so deep you have to look up. It’s tucked in so snug, there’s not room for much else.

It’s still, this sadness, like those fresh moments when it’s so dark the only sound are the crickets and that circular black ringing.

It’s the time when even the birds know to be still.

The time you should be drinking restoration but all you can do is sip as you rest your eyes.  When what you really want to do is rest your heart, just for a little while.

Demanding to be heard though it struggles to speak, it’s the kind that’s not going away.

It hides dreams and muffles hope as it buries feet in duties de jour.

It wonders of waste and struggles to salvage a life well-worn.

As who she is, rises to the surface, making room for who she is becoming.

 It’s balance that she can’t find.

There’s a poet resting just on the underside of this semi-suburban sinking life.  She’s so deep inside herself right now, she can barely hear the fingers tapping but knows that tap they must or she won’t find her way out.

Just hours ago, she wrote true words, yellow and pink compared to the black and blue that surface now.

Where is the balance.

Maybe that’s the price of the battle.  She’ll willingly pay it.  She just never expected the lightening would pierce the rainbow.

When she’s up at 3 a.m. these are muffled screams looking for the rungs that lead to Up.  She can’t see and all she hears are crickets, and ringing, and humming air circles and then a teenager, maybe a factory worker.  Someone passing in the darkness heading home from somewhere because the road that runs west, only leads home.

She feels splintered and even more so as she writes third person, because she is splintered.  There are a handful that want know and the rest choose what they see.

If community heals the broken places, why must new places break in order for the old to heal?

She’s not an actress, she’s honest about how she feels, sees, hears, but even still, when the faces choose what they see, it doesn’t matter whether she’s acting.  She still plays a part.

She’s supposed to go there this morning again.  That place that’s rubbing off her edges, and teaching her humility, compassion, purpose, community, it’s that love-lesson.  Must all love hurt so much?

They say there’s a love…she doesn’t feel it.

It’s now as she soaks her feet in the cold coals that they start to sear.  The vacuum might just drown her.  She’ll have to smile, unless she stays in bed.  She’ll feel hollow as she bridges words over depths they won’t understand.

Maybe the charade protects her from falling so deep inside herself she’d not find her way out.  She has to find a way to balance the deep dark with the shaded smile.

Or maybe she doesn’t.

Maybe today, she’ll wear something to simply protect her soul from the shimmer.

Maybe the camo.

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I'm a forty something women managing a busy family, working as a hair designer and trying to use my big-girl words.

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