Manuela Cardiga's Blog, page 84
December 9, 2013
YOUR WILL, NOT MINE
I'm going to find you a miracleI will pray and call on Gods
And dancing Angels to unfold
Erupt transform work
Wonders in your life:
Your dreams,
Your needs,
Your wildest schemes
Made flesh, defined;
But please, love, forgive
If in the selfish hour
Just before sleep
I secretly wish I could be
Your miracle
The way you are mine.
Manuela Cardiga
And dancing Angels to unfold
Erupt transform work
Wonders in your life:
Your dreams,
Your needs,
Your wildest schemes
Made flesh, defined;
But please, love, forgive
If in the selfish hour
Just before sleep
I secretly wish I could be
Your miracle
The way you are mine.
Manuela Cardiga
THE LONG AND WINDING TAIL OF A RAT AND A MOUSE
The Rat who stole
My Mouse
Was a dirty louse!
Drat that Rat!
He had no right!
He pranced
Right into the house
And absconded
With that Mouse.
And if that wasn't enough
Of a lemon sucks,
He had the gall
To blame it all
On that silly Cat
(I rather agree
With him on that)
The vain feline insists
On wearing
A jingly silver bell
With amethysts
Which rather destroys
The element of surprise
So essential
To a preemptive strike
Be it Air, Tank or Cat-attack...
Be that as it may,
The Rat stole the Mouse
The chocolate one?
With the marzipan whiskers
And the liquorish tail.
The delicious one
With the ginger-bread filling
I was saving
Just for you, my love...
Oh and he vengefully
Nibbled a hole
In a black satin glove.
The right hand too!
And that's the end
Of this rather
Sad tale...
(I would be remiss
If I fail
To point out
That last line is in
To keep it rhyming
Right to the end.)
Hey?
What chocolate trail
Around my mouth?
Didn't I tell you?
This dirty thieving Rat
Sneaked in
And stole my Mouse?
The one I was saving for you?
Manuela Cardiga
My Mouse
Was a dirty louse!
Drat that Rat!
He had no right!
He pranced
Right into the house
And absconded
With that Mouse.
And if that wasn't enough
Of a lemon sucks,
He had the gall
To blame it all
On that silly Cat
(I rather agree
With him on that)
The vain feline insists
On wearing
A jingly silver bell
With amethysts
Which rather destroys
The element of surprise
So essential
To a preemptive strike
Be it Air, Tank or Cat-attack...
Be that as it may,
The Rat stole the Mouse
The chocolate one?
With the marzipan whiskers
And the liquorish tail.
The delicious one
With the ginger-bread filling
I was saving
Just for you, my love...
Oh and he vengefully
Nibbled a hole
In a black satin glove.
The right hand too!
And that's the end
Of this rather
Sad tale...
(I would be remiss
If I fail
To point out
That last line is in
To keep it rhyming
Right to the end.)
Hey?
What chocolate trail
Around my mouth?
Didn't I tell you?
This dirty thieving Rat
Sneaked in
And stole my Mouse?
The one I was saving for you?
Manuela Cardiga
Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate: Handling Nipples...
Never twiddle nipples. Always caress with your fingers or thumb. Nipples are not knobs. Clitorises are not knobs. Do not tweak and strum frantically at a woman’s clitoris.
Both respond best to slow, almost-there-never-quite-arrive caresses.
Try to tease, tantalise. You may be firm, but never coarse.
Excerpt from "Guilty Pleasures" by Manuela Cardiga
Look for "Guilty Pleasures - The Food and Fornication Fables" by Manuela Cardiga
TODAYGet it online or at a Bookstore near you!
http://ph.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/books/detail/108
Or on Amazon, Barnes and Noble or Koboas as e-book or Paperback!
http://www.amazon.com/Guilty-Pleasures-Manuela-Cardiga/dp/1612131921/ref=sr_1_31?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1385422100&sr=1-31&keywords=The+Writers+Coffee+Shop
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/Guilty-Pleasures-Manuela-Cardiga?store=allproducts&keyword=Guilty+Pleasures+Manuela+Cardiga
http://store.kobobooks.com/pt-PT/ebook/guilty-pleasures-17
Both respond best to slow, almost-there-never-quite-arrive caresses.
Try to tease, tantalise. You may be firm, but never coarse.
Excerpt from "Guilty Pleasures" by Manuela Cardiga
Look for "Guilty Pleasures - The Food and Fornication Fables" by Manuela Cardiga
TODAYGet it online or at a Bookstore near you!
http://ph.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/books/detail/108
Or on Amazon, Barnes and Noble or Koboas as e-book or Paperback!
http://www.amazon.com/Guilty-Pleasures-Manuela-Cardiga/dp/1612131921/ref=sr_1_31?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1385422100&sr=1-31&keywords=The+Writers+Coffee+Shop
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/Guilty-Pleasures-Manuela-Cardiga?store=allproducts&keyword=Guilty+Pleasures+Manuela+Cardiga
http://store.kobobooks.com/pt-PT/ebook/guilty-pleasures-17
Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate: Light that fire...
Lighting is very important in a romantic setting.
Yes, we like it bright—the brighter the better—while women don’t.
They feel that halogen spotlights kill the mood and tend to bounce off every little dimple of cellulite on their thighs, highlight every little roll of flab, every delicate little tracery of a varicose vein, and every tiny sag and droop.
Opt for soft candlelight. It’s romantic, sexy and flattering; firelight is also good.
But do try not set fire to the house.
Excerpt from "Guilty Pleasures" by Manuela Cardiga
Look for "Guilty Pleasures - The Food and Fornication Fables" by Manuela Cardiga
TODAYGet it online or at a Bookstore near you!
http://ph.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/books/detail/108
Or on Amazon, Barnes and Noble or Koboas as e-book or Paperback!
http://www.amazon.com/Guilty-Pleasures-Manuela-Cardiga/dp/1612131921/ref=sr_1_31?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1385422100&sr=1-31&keywords=The+Writers+Coffee+Shop
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/Guilty-Pleasures-Manuela-Cardiga?store=allproducts&keyword=Guilty+Pleasures+Manuela+Cardiga
http://store.kobobooks.com/pt-PT/ebook/guilty-pleasures-17
Yes, we like it bright—the brighter the better—while women don’t.
They feel that halogen spotlights kill the mood and tend to bounce off every little dimple of cellulite on their thighs, highlight every little roll of flab, every delicate little tracery of a varicose vein, and every tiny sag and droop.
Opt for soft candlelight. It’s romantic, sexy and flattering; firelight is also good.
But do try not set fire to the house.
Excerpt from "Guilty Pleasures" by Manuela Cardiga
Look for "Guilty Pleasures - The Food and Fornication Fables" by Manuela Cardiga
TODAYGet it online or at a Bookstore near you!
http://ph.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/books/detail/108
Or on Amazon, Barnes and Noble or Koboas as e-book or Paperback!
http://www.amazon.com/Guilty-Pleasures-Manuela-Cardiga/dp/1612131921/ref=sr_1_31?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1385422100&sr=1-31&keywords=The+Writers+Coffee+Shop
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/Guilty-Pleasures-Manuela-Cardiga?store=allproducts&keyword=Guilty+Pleasures+Manuela+Cardiga
http://store.kobobooks.com/pt-PT/ebook/guilty-pleasures-17
Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate: Advice for the Sucsexful Man by Lance Packhard
Tell her you love her.Yes, she’s supposed to know it—even when you act like a jerk—but tell her anyway. Then, you tell her again and again. You tell her ten times a day if that’s what she needs. Tell her she’s beautiful, tell her you love her body, then tell her again.
Tell her when you’re making love to her; tell her when you’re not.Whisper it when you’re inside her, and when you’re at her mother’s and the old bitch is driving you mad. Pull her into the bathroom just because you need to touch her in the middle of a party. Make her come at the movies. Make her feel irresistible. Make her feel desired.
Excerpt from "Guilty Pleasures" by Manuela Cardiga
Look for "Guilty Pleasures - The Food and Fornication Fables" by Manuela Cardiga
TODAYGet it online or at a Bookstore near you!
http://ph.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/books/detail/108
Or on Amazon, Barnes and Noble or Koboas as e-book or Paperback!
http://www.amazon.com/Guilty-Pleasures-Manuela-Cardiga/dp/1612131921/ref=sr_1_31?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1385422100&sr=1-31&keywords=The+Writers+Coffee+Shop
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/Guilty-Pleasures-Manuela-Cardiga?store=allproducts&keyword=Guilty+Pleasures+Manuela+Cardiga
http://store.kobobooks.com/pt-PT/ebook/guilty-pleasures-17
Tell her when you’re making love to her; tell her when you’re not.Whisper it when you’re inside her, and when you’re at her mother’s and the old bitch is driving you mad. Pull her into the bathroom just because you need to touch her in the middle of a party. Make her come at the movies. Make her feel irresistible. Make her feel desired.
Excerpt from "Guilty Pleasures" by Manuela Cardiga
Look for "Guilty Pleasures - The Food and Fornication Fables" by Manuela Cardiga
TODAYGet it online or at a Bookstore near you!
http://ph.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/books/detail/108
Or on Amazon, Barnes and Noble or Koboas as e-book or Paperback!
http://www.amazon.com/Guilty-Pleasures-Manuela-Cardiga/dp/1612131921/ref=sr_1_31?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1385422100&sr=1-31&keywords=The+Writers+Coffee+Shop
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/Guilty-Pleasures-Manuela-Cardiga?store=allproducts&keyword=Guilty+Pleasures+Manuela+Cardiga
http://store.kobobooks.com/pt-PT/ebook/guilty-pleasures-17
Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate: The flowers always work...
Surprise her. Show up with flowers. Yes it’s corny. Yes, they love it, and yes, you’ll surely get laid.
Give her balloon bunnies, or a pretty shell from a beach you walked along together.
Diamonds also work, but we’re trying to keep this to a budget.
Dress up like Elvis—unless you look like Elvis in his last years, then don’t—and sing her a serenade. Make a fool of yourself. Women believe true love means being willing to give her ammunition to humiliate you for the rest of your natural life. They are quite right.
Excerpt from "Guilty Pleasures" by Manuela Cardiga
Look for "Guilty Pleasures - The Food and Fornication Fables" by Manuela Cardiga
TODAYGet it online or at a Bookstore near you!
http://ph.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/books/detail/108
Or on Amazon, Barnes & Noble or Koboas as e-book or Paperback!
http://www.amazon.com/Guilty-Pleasures-Manuela-Cardiga/dp/1612131921/ref=sr_1_31?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1385422100&sr=1-31&keywords=The+Writers+Coffee+Shop
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/Guilty-Pleasures-Manuela-Cardiga?store=allproducts&keyword=Guilty+Pleasures+Manuela+Cardiga
http://store.kobobooks.com/pt-PT/ebook/guilty-pleasures-17
Give her balloon bunnies, or a pretty shell from a beach you walked along together.
Diamonds also work, but we’re trying to keep this to a budget.
Dress up like Elvis—unless you look like Elvis in his last years, then don’t—and sing her a serenade. Make a fool of yourself. Women believe true love means being willing to give her ammunition to humiliate you for the rest of your natural life. They are quite right.
Excerpt from "Guilty Pleasures" by Manuela Cardiga
Look for "Guilty Pleasures - The Food and Fornication Fables" by Manuela Cardiga
TODAYGet it online or at a Bookstore near you!
http://ph.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/books/detail/108
Or on Amazon, Barnes & Noble or Koboas as e-book or Paperback!
http://www.amazon.com/Guilty-Pleasures-Manuela-Cardiga/dp/1612131921/ref=sr_1_31?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1385422100&sr=1-31&keywords=The+Writers+Coffee+Shop
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/Guilty-Pleasures-Manuela-Cardiga?store=allproducts&keyword=Guilty+Pleasures+Manuela+Cardiga
http://store.kobobooks.com/pt-PT/ebook/guilty-pleasures-17
December 8, 2013
A STORY ABOUT A MAN AND A DOG
Sweet my love, I want to tell you a story about a man and a dog.
(I don't know why a man and a dog! Every good writer has a story about a man and a dog, so I'm a telling you about a man and a dog.)
Anyway, here is how the story goes:
Once upon a time a lone man walked in the endless whispering desert inside his mind. He walked and walked and the sharp edges of the cracked and calcified sighs and screams littering his life cut into his soles.
(I said SOLES, not souls. It's a frigging metaphor. And NO, he wasn't wearing any shoes... BECAUSE IT WOULD RUIN THE STORY!)
As he walked he left behind him a trail of blood-stains, the exact shade of clotted pain. It hurt too - you better believe it - but he was stubborn dude, and so he walked that trail of shattered dreams for days and days.
At night he'd stop and build a fire with left-over bits of old loves he found tossed and trampled by the side of the track; and sat as close as he dared and warmed his hands to the flickering embers. Sometimes a flame would fitfully leap out and singe his palms, and he would yelp, but never did he lean back. The burning of a dead passion was infinitely better than the cold encroaching poisonous ice of the desert night.
The next morning the pallid sun would rise - it's fervid sickly heat belying its leprous light - and on he would trudge. After a few days he realised he was being followed. Far behind him, almost lost in the vague shapes of the distant dunes, a shadow stuttered. Close one day, another day further, but always there.
(I don't know what it was, but since it's a story about a man and a dog, it stands to reason it's a bloody dog!)
One night he dozed off by the fire. Something he had never done before, as he feared some old obsession would overrun his senses as he slept. But somehow, that night he slept. And as he slept the ragged hesitant shadow crept closer and closer, and when he awoke he found an odd creature slept curled up to him.
(Yes, it WAS a dog)
It was a dog, but a scruffier creature could not be imagined: ragged coat, mismatched ears and snarly limp-tongued smile. All in all not an animal to bring to mind any kind of warm cuddly tales about men and dogs.
It was - however - a dog, and so subject to the dastardly fate laid on every dog since the beginning of creation: the poor thing knew how to love, and so that is what it did. It loved. and since no better object presented itself in that arid land, he bravely proceeded to love the man. Now the man was most indignant. He tried to chase the dog away. He threw sharp-edged stones of polished scorn, shouted his harshest words, but the stupid animal would not be dissuaded from his dogged pursuit.
(Ye, I get the irony in using the word "dogged" to describe a dog's mindless devotion to an unworthy object of love, I'm writing this, aren't I?)
The truth be told, on the cold nights the man found the dog's presence quite useful. The gelid desert stars would throw down sharp arrows of ice, but the dog would stand above the sleeping man and snarl, and the frigid shards would break on his scruffy coat, and the man would sleep unharmed by the fierce agonising pain of old regrets.
During the day, the man forged ahead, and the dog would trail behind, trotting and pausing to sniff here and there; all the while lapping up the trail of blood the man was leaving behind. This the man found singularly repulsive; as was the dog's attempts at licking at his feet, or at his face, on which the tears ran a constant stream of burning salt. It seemed to the man the animal was feeding on his pain: his blood, his tears; and in the silent fearsome nights when the dog lay close, it seemed to devour even his fears.
This went on for quite a while. Days and days, endless chains of nights. The man walking his cursed path, the dog trailing behind. Oh but one day, the man found lying on the ground something strange: the monstrous bones of a snark.
(What do you mean: what is a snark? Ask Lewis Carrol, I don't know what a snark is.)
The dead thing stretched out on the ivory sand, its rib cage arched up against the sky; its cavernous eyes and empty grin seeming to mock the man. It was just too much, and the man sat on the ground and decided to die then and there. There was no reason to continue under these pitiless empty skies. At first the dog nudged at him, and licked at his face, his feet, and uttered plaintive whimpers; but the man would just lie there. The dog barked, he nipped at the man's heels, he even snarled.
The man pushed him away. "Begone! Fuck off! Go off and bug someone else. Leave me alone."
"I can't!" The dog cried, "I just can't!"
"Why the fuck not?"
"Why because...because I'm a dog! I love you - that stuff about Old Yellar is bred into us- and I am obliged to lie at your feet and die if you die; and let me tell you I don't want to die!"
"Go away, I tell you, I don't want you."
"Well!" cried the dog in a huff, "If you didn't want me, why did you spend your entire life chasing after love?"
But the man, of course, up and died without replying; and the Love-dog howled a bit, and chased a few fleas across its shoulder before trotting off to look for another man to follow home. This time maybe, one who would welcome the touch of its healing tongue and savour the comfort of its warmth on a cold night.
(Yep. that's how it ends. Why didn't the DOG die? Well... I don't know. I suppose because its a Love-dog, see? And love doesn't die. Not naturally, you know. You have to kill it.)
Manuela Cardiga
(I don't know why a man and a dog! Every good writer has a story about a man and a dog, so I'm a telling you about a man and a dog.)
Anyway, here is how the story goes:
Once upon a time a lone man walked in the endless whispering desert inside his mind. He walked and walked and the sharp edges of the cracked and calcified sighs and screams littering his life cut into his soles.
(I said SOLES, not souls. It's a frigging metaphor. And NO, he wasn't wearing any shoes... BECAUSE IT WOULD RUIN THE STORY!)
As he walked he left behind him a trail of blood-stains, the exact shade of clotted pain. It hurt too - you better believe it - but he was stubborn dude, and so he walked that trail of shattered dreams for days and days.
At night he'd stop and build a fire with left-over bits of old loves he found tossed and trampled by the side of the track; and sat as close as he dared and warmed his hands to the flickering embers. Sometimes a flame would fitfully leap out and singe his palms, and he would yelp, but never did he lean back. The burning of a dead passion was infinitely better than the cold encroaching poisonous ice of the desert night.
The next morning the pallid sun would rise - it's fervid sickly heat belying its leprous light - and on he would trudge. After a few days he realised he was being followed. Far behind him, almost lost in the vague shapes of the distant dunes, a shadow stuttered. Close one day, another day further, but always there.
(I don't know what it was, but since it's a story about a man and a dog, it stands to reason it's a bloody dog!)
One night he dozed off by the fire. Something he had never done before, as he feared some old obsession would overrun his senses as he slept. But somehow, that night he slept. And as he slept the ragged hesitant shadow crept closer and closer, and when he awoke he found an odd creature slept curled up to him.
(Yes, it WAS a dog)
It was a dog, but a scruffier creature could not be imagined: ragged coat, mismatched ears and snarly limp-tongued smile. All in all not an animal to bring to mind any kind of warm cuddly tales about men and dogs.
It was - however - a dog, and so subject to the dastardly fate laid on every dog since the beginning of creation: the poor thing knew how to love, and so that is what it did. It loved. and since no better object presented itself in that arid land, he bravely proceeded to love the man. Now the man was most indignant. He tried to chase the dog away. He threw sharp-edged stones of polished scorn, shouted his harshest words, but the stupid animal would not be dissuaded from his dogged pursuit.
(Ye, I get the irony in using the word "dogged" to describe a dog's mindless devotion to an unworthy object of love, I'm writing this, aren't I?)
The truth be told, on the cold nights the man found the dog's presence quite useful. The gelid desert stars would throw down sharp arrows of ice, but the dog would stand above the sleeping man and snarl, and the frigid shards would break on his scruffy coat, and the man would sleep unharmed by the fierce agonising pain of old regrets.
During the day, the man forged ahead, and the dog would trail behind, trotting and pausing to sniff here and there; all the while lapping up the trail of blood the man was leaving behind. This the man found singularly repulsive; as was the dog's attempts at licking at his feet, or at his face, on which the tears ran a constant stream of burning salt. It seemed to the man the animal was feeding on his pain: his blood, his tears; and in the silent fearsome nights when the dog lay close, it seemed to devour even his fears.
This went on for quite a while. Days and days, endless chains of nights. The man walking his cursed path, the dog trailing behind. Oh but one day, the man found lying on the ground something strange: the monstrous bones of a snark.
(What do you mean: what is a snark? Ask Lewis Carrol, I don't know what a snark is.)
The dead thing stretched out on the ivory sand, its rib cage arched up against the sky; its cavernous eyes and empty grin seeming to mock the man. It was just too much, and the man sat on the ground and decided to die then and there. There was no reason to continue under these pitiless empty skies. At first the dog nudged at him, and licked at his face, his feet, and uttered plaintive whimpers; but the man would just lie there. The dog barked, he nipped at the man's heels, he even snarled.
The man pushed him away. "Begone! Fuck off! Go off and bug someone else. Leave me alone."
"I can't!" The dog cried, "I just can't!"
"Why the fuck not?"
"Why because...because I'm a dog! I love you - that stuff about Old Yellar is bred into us- and I am obliged to lie at your feet and die if you die; and let me tell you I don't want to die!"
"Go away, I tell you, I don't want you."
"Well!" cried the dog in a huff, "If you didn't want me, why did you spend your entire life chasing after love?"
But the man, of course, up and died without replying; and the Love-dog howled a bit, and chased a few fleas across its shoulder before trotting off to look for another man to follow home. This time maybe, one who would welcome the touch of its healing tongue and savour the comfort of its warmth on a cold night.
(Yep. that's how it ends. Why didn't the DOG die? Well... I don't know. I suppose because its a Love-dog, see? And love doesn't die. Not naturally, you know. You have to kill it.)
Manuela Cardiga
LIP BALM FOR THE DISCERNING MERMAID
I float like flotsam
On a wave slow
Silken swelling
Heaving me higher
Where no fear
Foe or fire
Can reach.
I am tossed within
Diving in glassy satin
Silver silence
I am lost to all
Falling through
The blinding blue
Star hands opening.
Sea-burned
Lips splitting
On a liquid cry
Smooth spilling
Unravelling thirst
Salt taste
Of you.
Manuela Cardiga
On a wave slow
Silken swelling
Heaving me higher
Where no fear
Foe or fire
Can reach.
I am tossed within
Diving in glassy satin
Silver silence
I am lost to all
Falling through
The blinding blue
Star hands opening.
Sea-burned
Lips splitting
On a liquid cry
Smooth spilling
Unravelling thirst
Salt taste
Of you.
Manuela Cardiga
December 5, 2013
Weep maidens and warriors for a great King is dead
Tonight we weep for the passing of a good man.
He was not a hero. He was a man doing his best. Heroes choose to be so; I don't think for him there was choice. The work had to be done. So he did it. His country was in pain, so he healed it.
No other nation managed to change as South Africa did - without bloodshed.
Even Gandhi -the great Mahatma - did not free India without massacres and horrors; retaliations and revenge. Yet Madiba took a rag-tag group of warring rival tribes of all colours and shamed us into brotherhood. He stood in front of the revenge seekers and said: "Have you suffered more than I?"
He stood before the oppressors and said: "I will not be so", and stretched out his hand.
Sounds ever so mystical, doesn't it? It sounds like the lies historians write after great men die. But for once, there is no lie. A good man died.
Tonight not one South African of any tribe can say his Father did not die.
The magical prism that transmuted the hard light of bitter judgement into a rainbow nation is gone.
The miracle, hopefully, will live on.
Pass in peace Madiba.
He was not a hero. He was a man doing his best. Heroes choose to be so; I don't think for him there was choice. The work had to be done. So he did it. His country was in pain, so he healed it.
No other nation managed to change as South Africa did - without bloodshed.
Even Gandhi -the great Mahatma - did not free India without massacres and horrors; retaliations and revenge. Yet Madiba took a rag-tag group of warring rival tribes of all colours and shamed us into brotherhood. He stood in front of the revenge seekers and said: "Have you suffered more than I?"
He stood before the oppressors and said: "I will not be so", and stretched out his hand.
Sounds ever so mystical, doesn't it? It sounds like the lies historians write after great men die. But for once, there is no lie. A good man died.
Tonight not one South African of any tribe can say his Father did not die.
The magical prism that transmuted the hard light of bitter judgement into a rainbow nation is gone.
The miracle, hopefully, will live on.
Pass in peace Madiba.
SAILING ON THE EVENING TIDE
I will not baulk at disappointment.
I will not turn my face away from daylight, or cringe in fright in case I fail.
I lift my chin so you can see the scores left by years, and not a few acid tears.
I will not hide my face with all its scars, nor shield my heart from dreaming.
I have made mistakes, yet these are not what I regret.
Mistakes are not what mar us, it is the unwillingness to set sail and risk the fickle tide; that is what leaves us twisted out of true.Whatever chance on pain or joy I take is mine.
I will not flinch not claim redress from others for what ever responsability can be attributed to me alone.
I will place no curb on feeling, or dreaming or doing.
What ever plight befalls me: what ever the future brings of victory or defeat is mine.
Here I stand: whatever I am, or come to; I own it.
I will not turn my face away from daylight, or cringe in fright in case I fail.
I lift my chin so you can see the scores left by years, and not a few acid tears.
I will not hide my face with all its scars, nor shield my heart from dreaming.
I have made mistakes, yet these are not what I regret.
Mistakes are not what mar us, it is the unwillingness to set sail and risk the fickle tide; that is what leaves us twisted out of true.Whatever chance on pain or joy I take is mine.
I will not flinch not claim redress from others for what ever responsability can be attributed to me alone.
I will place no curb on feeling, or dreaming or doing.
What ever plight befalls me: what ever the future brings of victory or defeat is mine.
Here I stand: whatever I am, or come to; I own it.
