October 14, 2022

It’s not a choice.
It’s only what is real.
What is felt, seen

The aroma wistfully permutating the air

It is.
It’s lived

The starting pistol has long been shot.
The race is only a memory.
For the knees cripple at the sight of losing what was won.
Medals shall never change hands

To temper yourself means you lose what you have chased for so long.
What has been lived.
What has been constructed with mental fucking anguish.
With robed guilt unthreaded.Tattered cloth hangs around as much as an ability to breathe.
Threads catching in the lungs like the driest of dust

Tripping your self acceptance.
Falsifying records.
Replacing a narrative

Or so it seems

This shall not be the case

Do not let the threads be replaced.
To the inferior wants of others.
Where cheap labour fulfils a selfish intent.
Devoid of the outcome.
Lessened to a switch

A switch broken from ill actions & self worth.
A switch out of favour before the first flick of discontent is had.
A switch that is nothing but a queried scorned joke.
A switch looked at as if it is in need to be replaced with no story started

No thanks!

I am not your disposable plastic utility.
But I am your shining light.
Your grace of humility.
Your eater of feared thought.
Your next catch?
Your future fuck?
Your actual self

< What, Where, Why

Happy >