The Cutting Room Floor

I often feel I need the answers
to the deepest longings of my soul,
the unknown, the unknowable
I search them out as if they sit perched
on a lovely tree branch around the corner
just beyond the bend of the path
my feet happen to be walking upon

I often feel my heart beating to
escape the fortress so carefully built
to protect it during times of war
and this, my dear, is not a war
tis but a dance of life,
brimming with promise
and possibility and adventure
this my dear, is not a war
and vulnerability is not a crime

I often feel terrified of becoming
what I have been, something I once was
not to any true fault of my own
but a commodity, a thing for simple pleasure
it is not the way intended
but wouldn't it be beautiful
to shed that reasoning and simply be

I often feel the residue of cynicism
darkening my expectations of what could be -
the burns and the scars have not gone away
and I wonder if they ever will
and can I be free of or redeemed from
something that wounded the core of my being
so horribly and thoughtlessly

And yet I often feel hope
and I desire trust above all
to live a fulfilling, awe-inspiring life
that speaks of Greater things
that declares love and freedom
redemption and potential
that nothing we are is thrown carelessly
to the cutting room floor