broken

I try to scoop them up upon realising the mess I made.

Some pieces come together and yet many remain fragmented.

These temptations to do what I wanted . . . the ones that led me to fall prey to choices that hurt . . .

     . . . they are not exempt from cause and effect.

The truth of this pierces and I bleed shame.

Even when I storm in my house and snuff innocence with anger and the relationships remain, there still is a brokenness that I cannot repair.

I want to fix it all. I search for a super kind of glue that patches it all together seamless-like.

I want to hide the mess I made that lies beneath the spoken surface.

Yet, the real truth is that you color these pieces. And name them.

You allow them to break at exactly the places where they do.

I stand with a naked feeling as I sift through the broken.

You gently invite me to stop sifting. Just stop.

These pieces are yours. All yours.

I can rest. 

Today's post was part of my friend, Lisa-Jo's fun challenge each Friday to take five and Just. Write.

     "...for five, short, bold beautiful minutes... unscripted and unedited...

     without worrying if it's just right or not."

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.

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