The world is a beautiful place.

Maybe it’s that belief

that always gets me in trouble.

 

I spend my days

in this constant

awe

at the world,

in people,

in how wonderful

some things are, even when some

things

are so twisted up and

upside down.

And sometimes

I’m so busy looking up

 

That I forget to look down

 

And my own feet get

tangled up,

sending me down

and the ground opens

to swallow me up.

 

Thousands of feet

fly by

in

seconds.

And landing is

 

Hard.

 

There will probably be

bruises

by morning.

 

From down here, the

light

is a pinprick

and it’s hard to see

the beauty

when it gets this dark.

Now,

I know I’m not

the only one

to fall or be

pushed,

but from here,

it sure feels like it.

 

 

I know that

my “shelf” in the dark

is not the

            deepest,

is not the

            darkest,

            or the

                        smallest.

I know that

seeing the

Light,

            the way out,

is hard,

the climb,

            near impossible.

Our cries for

Help,

            Get  harder  t o

                        h e  a   r

the deeper

            we

                F

                  A

                     L

                        L.

But people have made it out.

They come back,

            Every now and then,

Face their own fear of the

                                                fall,

to throw us a rope

            to give us a hand.

 

I don’t always know my helper.

I don’t always know my

brothers and sisters,

            here in the dark.

But these words are my promise,

my marker,

so that I can return

with

            ropes and

            ladders and

                        lifts,

and help them get out,

        help them to see.

 

That is why I write,

To help them get free.