Writing raw. Blood stains the page as my heart bleeds across the lines.
Writing raw.
White page with black carvings gouged into the digital canvas – piercings of a heart trodden and torn. Seared smears of a life lived seeking for relief.
Words cannot express, or lines expunge the grief.
Expectation ends like the period puncture that ends this cryptic cry for help.
.
.
.
.
.
Soft hot tears
.
.
.
Tumble to the footer, spilling into a future unknown.
.
.
.
Dark days that frame the canvas for new light to shine.
I lift my heart and voice, strained and almost silenced, to the God who impregnates such helpless moments with the seed of hope.
The gash of words continue to cry across the page as I turn in hope of another brighter chapter. One where strands of confusion come together in conclusion. Where the tangled tapestry is turned to reveal the beauty on the side He sees.
I turn the page, and there the virgin white of a new day beckons me to reluctantly love once more. To bathe my heart in His forgiveness and gasp once again for grace to cover my failings.
Papa’s worn hands reach down to pull me to Himself.
Safe.
Broken, but bound by love’s promise that He will never leave nor forsake. That the broken hearted are the ones he came to save.
Writing raw.
No Like worthy words here.
No boast of life unfettered.
Just the stray black puncture remnants on a stark page for posterity.
Love,
Hurts.
Crying commas
,
,
,
Pouring periods
.
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Poetic pathways I travel until Papa scoops me up and I once again feel ready to rise and place my heart in the arena once again. A lover. Husband. Father. Friend.
The raw, beating, breathing joy of a life lived to love and learn, leaning on the One who feels and knows it all.
