Is it my story, or a reality?
Did I walk into the hospital and have the nurses cut my wounds open, and leave me bleeding?
The canvas that holds my image projects my smile as Mona Lisa's. Undaunted, Joyful and painless. Forever stuck in time.
In reality, when your lens lean a lot closer, you may see the wrinkles by the side of my lips. Wrinkles created to keep wails at bay.
Look closely and you will see the strain on my face, my eyes smarting from not blinking, my ears turning red, and the drizzle of sweat on my shirt.
What is true, and what is not?
What is pure, and what is dirt?
When will pain end its endless torment?
When will hurt sting less?
Where is Friend, to soothe my tears?
As I wondered on a hot May day, I saw a Man, He stopped my Misery's stride and put my pride on an endless strike.
He has tremendous power, and lifted the burden off my shoulders with an effortless wink.
He taught me lessons on love in seconds, His arms told stories of peace and joy.
Rapha, is one of the names He is called.
He is the reason pain is a faded reality.
He is The author of my breath.
He is The King of my heart.
He can be yours, too.
