Held in,
doubtful knots

Terrible ways of
Holding on.

Why?
So long kept is
too long
Felt.

I know, now.
I see.
That these pieces
Are but that
Of the whole.

They are not
who I am.
Just splinters
Trying
to work their way out

If not for I,
I allow,
I push
Them back down.

As if In love
with
the Pain? Sadness?
Aye,
somehow.

Better to write them
my wrongs held,
too long,
away.

Thus I learn
myself and reasons
Why it is?
Why,
I am afraid of
not
hurting?

Strange as such seems
there is truth to it.

Writing straightens
crooked patterns
of my thoughts

Knots of feelings
undone at long last.

To be understood
I must and can
share them away

As hope for those
built same as I am.