The pride that I have within the stroke of my paint brush that I ever so gently I try, I try to illustrate a past that I can somehow conceive in my present. My mind fails to realize that... the heart that pounds in the left breast of me... kills my curiousity, it plagues my depleted emotional existence, I swim in the coldest, deepest of oceans trying to find that one potion of my one true self... letting go...searching for that one method of letting go...o the memories... That I have grown to be so fond of controls my rattled hand as I try to dismantle the handle in my every stroke... It seems that I am now drawn to inconceivable conclusions, I am lead by clouds of disillusions. But its only my own shroud of memory that allows me to forget what I have always failed to remember...I have drawn the only infallible conclusion...The art of letting go.
Write To Make It Right!
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