I'm searching for the right ambiguous words- abstraction equals safety when walking on fragile ground. Intuition flashes images behind my closed eyelids- overcoming excessive thoughts and doubt's evil pain. And know there's no fear or confusion in my warm pounding heart, or in the fiery blood that courses through my veins.
I tiptoe upon these eggshells, repressing the desire that heats my flowing blood. Black pen marks hold my serenity, but they'd release it to freedom if they thought they could- thickly smeared black ink puddle, soaking deep into ancient wood.
I'm searching for the right ambiguous words to keep a version of my wall from crumbling down. This foolish pride is unwanted but so slow to say goodbye, though one foot in front of the other is leading towards sacred ground.
How can something with the strength of an oak tree feel like a twig in the wind? Fragility is an illusion and so is this confusion, and the fear in my head arises from the fact that this will never end..