down, through all the stories we tell
down, through all the years we sell
down, through all the arguments we yell
down, into hell
where we can be pulled apart by language
I will take my own advice
and do what’s right.
If this simple life
is mine
I will live it well.
the oak tree
gives up
its dead dying leaves
each season
it loses its beauty
and never complains of loss
it feels lighter
naked
in the cold
new
each year.
What does it all mean?
Can language tell me that?
Must I abide by the seasons?
this short life can be lived in harmony
or it can be an unpredictable story
Some years are traded for lifetimes
Some arguments
won without yelling
We whisper
who we are
in secret
We know, and the world knows too, without words
Hell is where the heart is
it’s your own personal pain
the more pain we can feel
the more power we can have
look around and see
the weak humanity
people do not want to feel.
What giants
they would be
if they tortured themselves
sadistically
for something that mattered
beyond
their own personal comfort.
Discipline
must lead
but not for need
of perfection
to be something
I don’t know tomorrow
to be surprised
like a rainbow sunrise
crying for promises
I made to myself.
Brilliant, I love it 💛
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So glad you liked it Anita! Thanks for reading! 🙂
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