Burden of Experience
I forgive myself.
Tunnels fostered by tall buildings
shape flashbacks like wind,
striking with each corner I take,
Swirling and sweeping
the dirt of yesterday into thin air.
Hissing through clenched chattering teeth
some lips never learn to close
before choking on the debris of past storms.
An itch that won't go away
Some call it a 'tickle'
Some say, 'nothing a little water can't handle'.
A bit eroded
Until awareness unearthed
Then forgiveness was grounded.
A choice of mastery
to be free.
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