Self Image

Some Assembly Required.

Mine is a literary soul…and I am drawn to those
that are alike. The waves of my mind are in prose and poetry, a song my words
seek to sing. I see no shades of grey, but an array of colours; violet, pink
and sometimes blue. Nothing is simple about me…about the way I glide the comb
through my locks of hair or about the way you sink your coarse yet tender hand perfectly
into the soft flesh of mine. Simple is boring. I laugh so hard that the echoes
travel far and wide and brighten troubled souls’ days. It rises from the depth
of my heart that one will always see the real from the fake. Did I tell you
there’s nothing simple about me? About the God I serve, that moves through me
and makes me new again. I am reborn each morning and I shed the coats of the
past. I drink from the living waters and I am made whole.

I don’t fall in love…I grow, breathe and feast
on it. it is a being to me; immortal and unfathomable. The pieces before me are
aligned. I glue each one together and witness the cracks mould and mesh into
wholeness. I immerse myself into my dreams; rainbows or butterflies, I do not
discriminate. “They” seek to find meaning…to understand the being that I am. But
the facts they gather, are fleeting and deceptive. Do they all see the same
thing? Does it even matter? Mine is a literary soul…my eyes that see more than
they acknowledge, my voice that is but a whisper and a paradoxical roar in these cold times; MY WORLD.
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