I used to Xanga

So this blogging thing is back in full swing.
It's something that used to be daily, my fling.
Of thoughts, prayers, and dreams of all sizes
No masks, no smoke and mirror disguises
Alarming, my sense of self has grown dim
Days that breeze past, almost quicker than wind
The case that surrounds my dear heart has cracked open
Parts of my ego and self have grown swollen
Fear tugs a "no- that's too much honesty"
But honestly what am I cracked up to be?
A saint of a lady with no closet to close?
Or a sinner who's come from the closet, you suppose.
A painting with smudges, and wrinkles, and blurs
An ache through my skin like those small, pokey burrs
A breathe that is squeezed from lungs of a lover
With all too much loss, from the wounds of a mother
A hope in a Man who has not failed me yet
Though my list of answers He has not filled yet
So sit here, may I - with questions unfolding
Throw out the cynical buzz you've been holding
A glimpse at a life that just happens to be
Yours for the taking, however you see
Fit with no faking, just sim.pli.ci.ty.