i mastered the science of making all the worst decisions

i have mastered the science of making all the worst decisions and continuously watched everything invaluable dart beneath the nearest exit sign. but, if i thought of these decisions as regrets, i’d be incinerating everything of worth. so in my dumpster, buried within every worst decision, rests the rarest and most compelling treasure; the freedom to evolve and prosper.

 

[discovering peace in letting go]

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the black velvet bow of time

i found within myself the crevices and reality

feeding swollen veins with unrequited heartache,

embracing the comfort held beneath the dull photographs [i call home]

ticking hands pounded violently between my saddened ears

branding each page of recollection with staggered syllables

tugging and prodding at the deception masked within your name

 

the memories became tangible and frail, i stood at a distance

visiting every instance of unpromise’s rapturous kiss

and watched as his hands united the black velvet bow

the crevices swallowed the loss of heartache’s scars

and plucked the crumbs of a poisoned lover’s foolish mess

 

but,

i cannot bask beneath the rays of instances and photographs

for shadows mask the quiet wings of crevices and letting go

instead, i nestle in the arms of loneliness

finding forever in a day

 

“Writing, at its best, is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer’s loneliness, but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates. For he does his work alone and if he is a good enough writer he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day.” -Ernest Hemingway