See Past Shells

You are not broken.

We all have our chips,
scabs and scars,
stories hidden,

the search and strive
for perfect,
itself a myth;

you are perfect
as is,

each soul a treasure,
measured not by appearance
or the illusion of wholeness,

for we are equally complete
when love washes over us

for no shell is enclosed,
though we shrink within,

open and in rotation,
vulnerable hearts
search for a fit.

The ocean knows
and sings the wisdom:

each of us beautiful,
not just enough,
but the only one for another
and in God’s hands, cupped.

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Reflection Revelation

Oh restless soul,
finally home!
Not a mirage,
not an oasis,
but the permanent waters
of self-acceptance.

Comfortable in
your own skin,
feel His embrace
as you see
your true reflection.

Those old muddy waters
were always tainted;
the truth now clear,
free from manipulation.
You have always been

beautiful.

One Blank Page

If I had but one blank page to fill,
what would my message be?

What dance would my fingers perform
across the finite-lettered keys?

How could I paint in black-font
a picture of beauty and hope

that would reach and pierce with light
the souls who need it most?

If I were confined to the cage of a page,
how could I choose the right combination of words

that could break free from the paper or screen
and inspirationally rebirth?

How powerful words can be,
how powerful the choices,

how powerful this lesson when applied
to our spoken and inner

voices,

how powerful the silence
when writer’s block takes hold,

and we fail to say what should be said
when it matters most.

Poem and image ©Laura Denise

Critical Heart

Sometimes a heart

simply wears thin,

the muscle becomes tissue

paper, translucent,

and the wind

and the rain

threaten to tear it,

but as long as its color

holds permanent,

the heart

will mend

itself

again.

It is the heart that darkens

that is a critical matter,

its pigment abrasively stripped

from harsh despair;

it becomes ugly and overpassed,

judged and seen as an outcast

until it believes in the masses

and caves into itself at last.

But even the most charred heart

can grow back its color,

and though love is the way,

it is not through the kiss of another.

Only the withered bloom itself

can ignite the reverse process

with self-love,

and if but one beholder

can convince it of its beauty,

that heart with its scars

is the one that grows into the greatest

love story.

Every heart is worthy.