Trying

In the looking glass of a blank page, I see myself, a mess

A tempest, hesitant fears, paralyzing doubt wearing smiles and surety like a dress

This is part of the journey, luggage stacked waiting by the door,

Condemning, each procrastinating glance bowing the pine floor

The choice is child-like simple, making it painful and hard

Open a bag and listen, or walk away from hidden shards

The bags contain the cloths of former selves

Folded, hidden deep on memory shelves

They whisper sweet lies that feel real, carved in bone

And bitter truths that push you forward, onward, alone

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