Just when she thought

 she had dug  

herself out of despair,

she stared down

at the freshly prepared grave

and noticed the soiled shovel 

in her hand.

I
     see
passion, where there was apathy
playfulness, where there was tragedy
beauty, where there was ugliness
pacification, where there was strife
acceptance, where there was rejection
strength, where there was weakness
elation, where there was sorrow
certainty, where there was doubt
honesty, where there was guile
devotion, where there was neglect
comfort, where there was suffering
peace, where there was bitterness
laughter, where there was despair
affection, where there was resentment
healing, where there was brokeness
pleasure, where there was pain
light, where there was darkness
and *most
           importantly
YOU*, where there was emptiness

Who
should I
expect today,
Doctor Jekyll
or Mister Hyde?

It has been said that we can be our own worst enemy.

This may be true.

Couldn't it also be said that we can be our own *best companion?

Tattered
     shreds
            of a life
strewn across
     the floor
              in need of mending

the words were engraved,
a tattoo on her skin.
as a sweet reminder,
of all that she believed in.

but as she sees it in the mirror,
staring boldly back at her.
she starts to question truth,
and the lines begin to blur.

is there really such a  love,
which accepts you with your faults,
that doesn't give you pain
or personal assaults?

the kind that lasts forever,
firmly built on trust.
that's willing to face problems,
and doesn't fade to dust.

the type that will protect,
but never keeps the score.
and is filled with passion,
that is felt down to the core.

where patience is its shadow,
and anger is thrown away.
kindness fills the air,
and no one ever strays.

she thought that love had found her,
and had swept her off her feet.
she poured out her heart and soul,
but sadly felt defeat.

turning back at her reflection,
reading True Love Never Fails.
she feared that she had lost all faith,
in her treasured fairy tale.

I was often
envious
of those that knew which road to choose,
walking it like a familiar memory,
while I would stumble and fall.

I blindly moved forward.
Sometimes taking too long,
to pick myself up,
bruised and scraped
backtracking
wandering
and
making up for lost time
in both lightness  
and
overwhelming darkness

I would pray for a sign,
a compass
to give me direction,
as the sun and moon
exchanged glances

But somewhere along my journey,
envy went missing
and
now I often pass by those
that knew their way-
voraciously attempting
to trace their steps
back to the road they came from

Searching
for the wrong turn they made
ragged
blinded
by
their mistakes

As I look back at the view
of my trail
from where I have risen
after every fall
and I see my bruises and scrapes
that created a map

I notice its key
identifying pitfalls and battlegrounds
mountaintops
valleys
and  
rivers that flow effortlessly

and I find myself
at peace.