Unfinished

I’m a work of unfinished poetry.

Some days I live a life of rhymes.

My stories are tales that’d make your heart push against the walls of your chest. But some days these exhilarating moments are followed by a sharp pain. Mistakes and hurt twist my stomach tight some days. Some days I lay on reality as my idealistic self gasps for air. I have no words. The gravity of uncontrollable people and situations is suffocating. The belief that I can control people and situations is dangerous — deadly.

But here I am. This is one of those “some days” when, with the breath of persistence I still have left, I take back my life.

I pour perspective down my veins. I hold my own hand and tell every dieing part of me that indeed it is not the end.

“This is not your end.”

You’re unfinished, yes.

You’re overly idealistic some days, yes.

But you’ve got persistence.

You’ve got to shake your mind .

Some days, most days you won’t have control.

However, all days you do have control on how you choose too see life.

So work unfinished this is not your end, it’s your damn beginning.