The Lying Mind

I stall yet again.

Nervous tension, restrained breath.

Will I ever break free of these repeating patterns?

A cycle of events that ever toss me to and fro, like a cyclone of emotion that threatens to erode the delicately construed image of myself, still under construction.

Will I ever be good enough, strong enough, soft enough.

To be seen, heard and appreciated as I am, not to be tossed aside or bitten down by cruel words.

Is this storm even real or is it yet again, a manifestation of past haunts and my own imagination?

Why does my mind deem to inflict such cruelties upon myself, picking up what others left behind?

Let those lies lie, down there, in the gutter to be washed away with the next rain.

Renewed as the forest is with the morning dew.

Let me be rebuilt of stronger things, not immovable, but flexible enough not break the next time the wind kicks up again.