Feelings are felt.
Reflections occur.
And hope steps in for wishes to make a difference.
But nothing changes, and so the argument continues.
Another day has passed.
There are occasional curves.
And the house shutters the sorrow.
But nothing changes, and so the argument continues.
We try again.
Give more.
And softer music tries to oppose familiar tears.
But nothing changes, and so the argument continues.
Old messages know the aches.
Tomorrow is silent because it isn't here now.
And scars are admirable while their wounds are cringy.
But nothing changes, and so the argument continues.
Not for understanding the witness of the loudness.
Not to love the confused.
Not to celebrate survival as resilience.
But because underneath what's stared at, felt and repeated is the deeper story of a box.
A value card measuring every detail of the homeland.
Sentimental about causing drama in the garden.
A publisher that endorses burnout but not relief.
And obscures hero with clouds to make it look like it isn't anywhere in the story.
But we can't afford to stand still in past injuries, and we also can't finance a future that ends up siding with our life-long argument either.
And while change implies it needs us to know what we are doing, what it really needs is for us to get out of the dispute that keeps repeating storylines.
To feel how close we are to the losses and not continue the anthem that's trained us to flail because of them.
To agree that mistakes pull at us but that they do not validate the mistreatment of us.
To remember that a home isn't some place but us as the gardener and the garden.
That it isn't the best use of time reading the comment section of wounds, but it is if we are bringing comfort to the sharpness.
And that happiness will always feel out of reach as long as we are stuck surviving in the argument that treats us as if we are the thorns and not the flowers.
Have the best day, POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
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