On a storm-filled Sunday morning,
when the gloom of the day
reflects my mood,
I can still look to the sky and smile
when the sun breaks through.
Sometimes my eyes pass over
an object with a sharp edge
or a shiny porcelain bowl,
and, though they hesitate,
they keep moving on.
I still look in the mirror
from time to time
and cry at what I see,
but I now have the power
to wipe the tears,
to reassure myself that
I am vibrant,
even if I don't feel like it today.
I don't see the world in
black and white anymore,
but in myriads of
bright blues and deep sea greens
that paint the landscapes
around me.
I still slip up from
time to time,
but do not reduce me
to my mistakes,
because my road
has been a long one,
with more twists and turns
to come.
This is recovery.
YOU ARE READING
Lessons Learned
PoetryThese poems are not organized in a linear fashion. Some of the last poems happened first, some of the first poems happened last, and some of the contradicting poems happened all at once. However, I figured this organization of it might be a bit easi...
