Untold stories

[I don't poetry much.]

Maybe they are like the ember

that hurts when held tight

but when released kindles flame that the heart leaps to see.

Maybe they are like the grain of sand

that is covered by smooth hard layers

slowly, one by one, year by year

until the pearl is found, shining and lustrous

hiding the sharp edges deep inside.

Maybe they are like small stones

light but dense

when multiplied heavy as the world.

Maybe they are like the shoe

that rubs and chafes and galls

and makes callous what once felt the soft grass.

This is true: they are holding the breath

and stopping the tongue

and damning the self

that by nature must flow, must be free.

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