Make Not a Decomposing Heart
Hearts will come and hearts will go, some will be welcoming. Some will be harsh, plucking yours as if a cherry; feasting upon it for the delight of their own appetite. Savoring the nectar that flows upon their lips like a wine cast from the ages. But yours shall always stay, and it may harden through the harsh travels ahead.
Maybe it already has. Maybe it weighs of stone and beats of tar. But it is your heart, and no others can understand it. You must learn to preach to it, spill your pain to the vastness before you. Write it upon the walls of your ribs. Allowing no wounds to fester, be not a melancholic wanderer. Ending dead in actions of others, as if a counter part of Poe.
Life is no downward slop. It is a path of treacherous and loving things. It will bleed you dry if you let it. It will bury you beneath the soils of earth before you even die. It can cause disdain upon those around you, though you be the sickness that ill's you.
But life also brings good. But only if you achieve the climbing of your suffering. Breathing life in every step. Holding dear the morals that lift you, building standards that raise you. Tending to no blameful cries. Planting roses along your path so that others may see they too can find themselves.
The storms will come, the lighting will strike; setting blaze to the home around you. But life is not meant to be held in place. You must travel, you must wander; not only in the physical, but the spiritual. Guiding yourself by the calls of your heart, your gut.
Times may come when what you want, will feel as if death will precede it. That you will lose more than what you have. That what will come, will beat you into submission. But such a defeat, is yours to choose. If you raise that white flag, prepare for bearing of regret; and I tell you, regret is no sliver to the skin. It is the devils teeth scorned upon your heart.
But fear not, for sometimes, we must lose it all, we must start again. For too often we become attached to what decomposes our souls.
Slowly decaying to the afflictions of our own purgatory. Till we become unrecognizable, even to ourselves. Haunting the very halls of our own veins. Tasting our own blood to survive, only ending in the death of our heart. Latching to the romantic suffering, like a victim to Stockholm.
Though abuse has taken place, their lingers a sense of familiarity. So we wish to hold to it, creating a more simple concoction of life. But as one must inhale, one must exhale. Each breath, bringing in the new.
Hearts become an everlasting tomb of mossy stone in the recycling of pain. But in the recycling of reliving it. Of cherishing it as if it holds the key to you, to life. But their bids no existence in such an undertaking. Only lies and corrosion sprout from such a way.
Lean not to the echoes, but to the challenges that soar to the tops of your mountains. Yell for your mercy and cry out for forgiveness. So that what you hold deep in the belly of your beautiful heart, may be heard by the ears upon your head. The ears you may have sewn shut before you ever allowed your heart to speak.
Be the painter of your horizon, but you must choose your colors, you must choose your scene.
Thank you for reading!
I hope this lifted your heart.
There is more of my writing to be found in my debut book, A Man's Traveled Heart
Coming soon; A Bleeding Of Words
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