Blindsight

Why do we feel compelled to share the things that sadden us?
The thoughts that our very psyches rebel ... against
All odds really point to the fact that misery needs company
And what better company than people who aren't miserable yet?
So we write.
Sad poetry.

Blank verse falling freely on page after page
We bleed ink... and feelings
Hiding behind innuendo;
(I'll admit, I'm a coward - writing out my feelings literally? Hell no)
Still pen to paper provides solace
Who knew a blank piece of paper could be so comforting?

We're all fools of destiny
We reap, what we sow.
You may
Gird your belt
Put on your armour (I mean those walls, haven't you changed them yet)
You may just choose to be accepting
Or not choose to acknowledge it

Only a fool runs from knowledge, no matter how painful the process.

Pain.
We put ourselves in the hands of others in the hope that they won't break what we give to them;
And if they do, the cycle perpetuates itself
Are we scared to break the cycle?
Or is it that we're unable to?
Rise above
Do something ... different
Trust in spite off the odds
(I was never a gambling man myself)

But it all starts with each of us making a conscious decision,
No one else can do it
We're each our own master.
For better. Or for worse.