Paper Cuts

Pinned down with a tack

To the old cork board

Behind the door,

Flapping in the breeze

When it slams.

.

I cannot read my own handwriting,

Scrawled on the light blue pinstriped

Surface of my skin,

With black and blue felt tipped pens.

.

Smudged and frayed,

I am paper thin,

With one small translucent spot,

Where if you gently pressed your thumb,

I would crumple.

.

© M. G. Iannucci 2016

Photo: Crumpled Paper

We all have our own particular vulnerabilities, areas of brokenness, situations where we fall short of love’s ideal. We are human and it is expected. Revealing those places to people who care is the beginning of healing and growth. There is no such thing as worthy or unworthy in the eyes of the Eternal. We all just do the best that we can. I am trying to write poetry to express different aspects of the human condition. I only hope that I am able to do it justice.

 

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