We all carry things.
Sometimes the things we hold onto
are more beauty reflecting
There’s joy amid certain triumphs
and a lightness despite the weight in feeble arms
Others 
have more edges to what's in clutch
A rockiness where bloody knuckles leave tenderness 
to jagged hearts 
and courses shores

to brutal destinations.
Sometimes stillness is reflected 
Where the wind blows the internal mind from here and there 
Never quite landing
or settling someplace secure. 
It’s all in differing perspective.
The light, rockiness, and tidal waves, that seem to knock people over, lift them to bubbly highs, or secure them into someone more enclosed 
Someone more still
Or empty 
No matter what goes on around
A forever exchange between the internal and external reality, that rarely do we find glimpses of within a full picture 
But are prominently held with clenched fists and undetectable faces 
because life was made for holding
As if everything was made for eventually loosing