Poetry From My Past.

Time heals all wounds…

It’s what you do with that time.

If the wound is not addressed properly,

The wound becomes infected.

Once the wound is now infected,

More care is needed, and again,

If it is not addressed properly,

the infection spreads throughout.

The infection becomes a disease.

Once it’s a disease, there’s nothing

Left to heal.

Even if you do heal, you’re never who you were before.

Neither the offender or the offended. All there is, is a band aid, which eventually gets intentionally or unintentionally ripped off, and the wound, now a scab, just gets picked at until it’s a scar.

Scars are forever.

It’s easy to forgive.

It’s harder to mean it.

It’s impossible to forget.

Even harder to move on.