Don’t be surprised my friend
You make your own decisions
Your work, your fight

The days count up
Full of broken dreams
The sounds of excuses
What gave? The process or your bones?

My blessing on the tip of my tongue

I’ve been so bitter towards you

That disservice runs rampant
My story is not removed from the whole

Each bristle held responsible
This painting full of beauty
That brushes will unfold
Colors, once applied, care not
If strokes were made softly or bold

All our paths have been pondered
We each contribute to Our Canvas
Even those who wandered

I will shift
I will change
I will make room for us both

I come clean
I receive you
I storm the gates of hell!
Now! Show me the door!

The drowning sun


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