Did I bargain?

A roll call is bound for everlasting
ears. The slightest mistake is licked and
put forth with great hindering grains. This
process called stain a name, burn a scar.

With all that can be branded, all but
my forehead bears the name. Still I
cower low to the truth of the reality.

Did I bargain a life for a form of
torture or did I hide the destined brashness
with a coat of paint? Only one knows the real
me and can answer the weighted depression
upon my shoulders.

By far, I am not low. Nor am I "down"
and negative. Just have burden I can
carry and a supporter that explains what
is mine to hold.

I cannot expect anyone to know of how life is
not darkness but sporadic splashes of gray
upon whiteness. I do not expect anyone
to understand the depth of that experience.

And as this confusion seems vague, I assure
you that my mind is churning in such
a tremor that life is profound and very
precious.