Poetry #2

Each day I slowly pick myself up from that reckoning. 
Some days I’ve let a storm brew,
and there are dust and dark debris to collect. 
My heart sank with self-pity,
Regret.
I’m louder now.
I’m grounded on my own two feet.
Prana enriches me. 
I don’t get knocked down.
I see the coding on the soles of my feet.
A path constantly clearing ahead for me. 
Forgiveness to myself, I should have said. 
I no longer cry wells, or let you intoxicate my head. 

-out of the woods