as you consent to your own suffering,
may your heart be content that there's no other place you'd rather be;
elsewise, have the courage to admit that any affirming illusion,
is a welcome to the death of self-compassion.
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YOU ARE READING
My Daily Poetry
Poetrytrembling hands narrate, whatever the mind paints; reconciling the mess made, created by affection and hate; papers serve as scapegoat, concocting it as remedy; shaping one's story, creating thy poetry.
