If I am the discarder of my own
happiness, then I can choose to
cherish it and never let go.
Making me a writer in my story.
It’s so easy to blame someone
or something else for my emotions—
Much harder to point the
finger at myself.
Expecting others to love like me
ended in disappointment or tragedy.
They failed to disguise their true
intentions like a bird hiding in a tree
with no leaves and falling branches,
though it’s my fault for ignoring
the red flags.
I might not have been fast
enough to dodge the jab,
but I have the authority
not to pick the scab and
the ability to press the
pen against the pad.
I heal by sharing art.
It’s the closest feeling to
Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!
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The story invoked strong personal emotions
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