On Emotional Work
A sonnet of processing life and moving on
By Spencer BarrettPublished 5 years ago • 1 min read
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Photo by Jack Gittoes from Pexels
Thou heart is fixed atwixt thy cavity,
Shielded from the words of misfortunes sling
That may still cut with such depravity
To leave indication and naught aught sting.
The wound has left and yet you still doth cry;
A scar of your emotions' own forming
T'won't ever heal if you pick, prod, and pry,
The scab that protects and serves as warning.
But guard your heart. "Guard it!" I say, from they,
That would twist and pull the strings as it mends,
Tying knots where they aught not be. And pray
Your hands do not hold the strings by their ends.
Emotions aren't badges pinned to your chest,
But tools to be used and then laid to rest.
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