Words hold the power of the writer.
Made through lists honoring the details.
Known and unknown in both love and hate.
Embraced, this way or on that path.
Blurred in the gaps of confusion and pain.
Adapted for and left out of consideration.
Sewn by presence and absence.
Used in familiarity, not necessarily favoritism.
Chronicled since long, long ago.
And echoing forth as tomorrow looms ahead.
Because words continue to give what's locked in.
In the way, we see ourselves with them.
In the same 24/7 voice, narrating new spaces.
Sorrow claiming the blues.
Consistency copying comfortable responses.
Challenges rooting in the dirt.
Doubt plowing over us whenever it wants.
Safety held for some future chapter.
Pushing through is best known for its role as not enough.
And feelings stalking misery despite hope.
Simply because it's what our art has been promoting.
But who are we on the other hand, where silence has been encouraged to bloom?
The side that we skip over, due to its unfamiliarity.
The one where falls aren't seen as the end point.
Wonder cuts through the clutter for words to grow in our own gardens.
War is the old game and liking us is actually the story.
Love doesn't use the language of love to justify blocking love.
Happy isn't the end of unhappy but an understanding of being both.
Hello to expansion is a good-bye to the limitations that have contained the power of us.
And where the image of strong is a better read with fragile than separately.
Our art is a pattern of certainty and uncertainty.
Both come to cover every moment.
Neither is actually fixed, but our practices complicate their presence.
Either one can rule, but neither becomes the enemy when used together.
And straddling the path to sort things out is always available regardless of the time spent surviving on a side.
Art is art, moments are moments, and words are always meant to be free to help give us our all.
Have the best day, POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
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