Posted in art, poetry, writing

Sensitivity

Sensitivity  The skin on my fingers is peeling, stressed by the newness of strings beneath. I misstep, stumbling in misjudgment, too far, a sour sound.  The distraction cracks the exercise of muscle memory, fumbling through overthinking I know I said all the wrong things, deafened in the aftermath of mistakes, a ringing of dull notes and your silence.  The calluses flake off my fingertips, daring raw flesh to try again.  But it hurts.

My inner poet disappeared for a few days. She hasn’t been that quiet for that long in quite some time. She’d like to say hello again and thanks you for listening.

Have a great weekend my friends!

–Leanne Rebecca

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Author:

Poetry and music.

6 thoughts on “Sensitivity

  1. “I know I said all the wrong things, deafened in the aftermath of mistakes.” This is a perfect description of what happens to me when I stand in judgment of everything I say and do. I’m learning to hold this self judgment in awareness and realize that it is a whisper (sometimes a shout) of childhood longings for acceptance. Your words speak volumes, my dear.

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