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.