Somewhere tucked on a bookshelf is a book.
Dogeared, yellow pages with a hand written note.

In a box, lie trinkets — gifts, a pendant of Annie, a book mark.
Hand made cards, smudged with time.

An old doll almost intact,
Broken spectacles, pictures, a watch and postcards.

Some may call it clutter, junk —
And it’ll all go when I go.

But to me, they are the reason behind my smile, an odd tear.

More precious than collectibles or art —
They are pieces of my life,
My world and heart.

I've felt vulnerable fully clothed and confident when confidence is all I have on-
Vulnerability is more than being bare for someone to see it all.

It is shedding the coat of bitterness because it ignited fires in my heart that sought to burn me down with it.

It is unbraiding the strands of hair coiled into a tight braid of rigidity, of being so tense and stern.

It is peeling off the shirt of past hurt, one that threatens to shrink tighter every time I wash it with my tears.

It is untying the shoelaces that bound me to a path I didn't foresee, a path I cannot forge and a path that does not lead me anywhere but where I have already been.

It is sliding out of a sheath of selfishness, one that clothes me in want and doesn't serve anything I need.

It is ******* all of my preconceived notions of how to live, why people hurt and why I still do regardless of the joys I have seen. It is stripping myself bare of façades and painted faces, the kind that insist I am fine when I am so far from it and closer to the dark than ever before. It is opening my mouth to cry and to ask for help even when I am blind to the hands reaching for me. It is admitting that I struggle to get a grip and some days I can only grip myself into a hug and hope for more.

Vulnerability is more than being skin and bone exposed- it is seeing past that with the naked eye.

The past—
moth-wings, dust-thin,
dissolving at touch—
markings
worn thin
as river stones,
voices replaced
by the wind—
only faint rustles
remain—
blended into
the silence of time—
who remembers
the hands
that built
the forgotten roads,
the scratch
of ink
before it dried
on a forgotten parchment.

Somewhere,
a hand
once carved truth
into stone—
now the rain
speaks of it
but no one listens.

People these days seem to have forgotten that history repeats itself like a clock on the wall…..
Twice a day, first as a lesson, the second time as a warning. Still, no one cares to listen until the clock stops, the walls begin to crack, and the foundation is crumbling beneath their feet……
only then do we begin to realize it’s too late to turn back and we then scramble to replace the batteries and repair the cracks.
Shane M. Stoops