"Rose of Sharon"
I think they warn us, from heading towards the light because at first it’s painful. Through the process of my truth I ve noticed a Suttle difference between pain and hurt. We ve been programed to run from pain, to numb ourselves. Distract us into using our defense mechanisms against our better nature. Breathing life into walls that now suffocate our freedom. I had to immerse myself in my pain to realize I was the warden of my prison. Gratitude and respect saved me from the shame of my ignorance. They reminded me that walls divide but boundaries respect. We fight each other because of the battle with in ourselves. I ve been in a fight against myself so long after awhile i thought it was the intent. Raging with my sword of judgement, my insides would rip apart at the assault of my thoughts. Fueled by anger, I slice through myself and watched as the crimson rivers stick to my roots. I scented it’s pungent sweetness a mist the chaos and screams. This close to myself I could feel the warmth of relief layered in the anguish of my wails. I could see the eager pursuit of protection and heard the whisper of surrender. Lost in my senses, everything came to a halt and thats how I found you, wrapped in the supple softness of a brown little girl. A breeze caught her wild dark curls but despite the tears rolling down her round cheeks, a determined smile played at her pouty lips. Distracted in her beauty, I didn’t notice the white rose she held in her grasp. She opened her chubby fingers like the blooming flower she handed me and exposed the blood from the thorns that coated her hands. That familiar sweetness carried by that silent breeze dropped me to my knees, the heavy sword slipped from my grip and I went for the rose. The words ” thank you ” echoed through my mind but without permission ” I m sorry” fell from my broken lips. Desperation pierced a dagger through the sky and without wasting a thought, I scooped her in my embrace and tiny arms coiled around my neck. As I quickly turned my back on the forgotten war, the dagger tore through my spine but she never let go. She held me in her gentle premature arms and said “Sharon, I love you!”
Journalistic Writing