I've done it again

Haven't I?

Peep and retrieve

corrupt drive

One minute in a second

a second in a moment

a moment of thousand reflections

shattered thoughts

and broken perceptions

I chose poorly

I chose defeat

stuck in limbo

wanting relief

I need to go back

Just a minute

Retrace my tracks

mend the bad steel

Replace my drive

choose to stand still

Protect my mind

do the right thing

The learning path diverges at

reward and punishment,

where light and dark, quite simply, are

reflections of desire.

The lessons forged with molten ore

doth wound before they're healed;

mistakes must burn short of an urn-

insight requires pain.

So grueling roads I seek, for Oh!

those scars will mark my growth

and mar my skin from deep within,

lest I forget my sins.

flip it on its belly and

look for the hidden writing

beneath the sharp and scaly skin.

scrawl it onto your heart.

It'll burn, but the scars will heal,

a strong reminder for days to come.

I stomped off the field, crying, while men in pantaloons pretended nothing had happened.

I threw my fiberglass bow at my father’s feet like a tennis premadonnna having a tantrum--like a golfer who puts his favorite putter over his knee before he pitches it into the grass. I screwed up my face, made myself look as angry as I could; to hide my tears, which seemed very important at ten. And I complained, bitterly.

“They’re laughing at me, and it’s not fair. I can’t pull it back any farther.”

My father looked at the children’s bow at his feet, and at the men on the archery range who were trying to save my dignity by ignoring me.

“They’re not laughing at you. They’ve just never seen a child hit the bale from that distance, and they think it’s funny.”

I wiped my eyes. I was too old for this kind of behavior, but I’ve always had a temper. “I missed.”

“Yes.” He agreed. “But you missed very well.”

It’s taken my entire life to learn that lesson. To understand how to miss well. To learn from my mistakes, I must abandon the idea of hitting a lucky bullseye. We should all abandon the notion that every shot will be a Robin Hood shot. Or that we’ll even hit the haybale with every pull. In this life, it’s far better to miss well, and be consistent, than to hit the bullseye once and never come close again.

In archery this is called grouping. Like throwing darts, any child can hit the center mark by happenstance or luck. But your grouping--consistently putting the arrows in neat, tight clusters around your target--that takes real mastery, and real practice.

So it is with writing. Or any other creative skill. You should never expect to write one book and hit the bullseye in your genre or market. You should never expect to loose one story upon the world, and eternally reap the rewards. You must shoot thousands of arrows--hundreds of thousands--before you can have a good grouping. And if you miss alltogether, you should miss very well.

The men standing on the archery line that day--the men who had come to the renessance fair dressed like English bowmen--they didn’t hold my tantrum against me. Far from it. They cheered when I got off the grass and came back to the field. They made space for me on the firing line. And when I missed, I missed very well, and they applauded that too.

For all of you on this website. For all of you Prose writers who are here to get your practice shots in; I applaud you. I’m glad to see that you’ve abandoned the bullseye. And I hope you miss well too.

to learn from my mistakes

I must endure

the pain

the torment

the scars

I must take

the pain

the torment

the scars

and build armor from it

I must use the armor

make it

my protection

my reminder

my fortress

so that I may be able

to grow

to learn

to thrive

as I go forward

to learn from my mistakes

I must use my struggles

to make me

smarter

stronger

better

to learn from my mistakes i must

first understand what challenges i face.

for wisdom does not come with haste

and i will not be stagnated, just

berated with the sting of pride.

i have no stomach to burn others on a pyre

for the selfishness of one's own desire

and my mistakes are meant to grind

against my consciousness until the shame

burns so wicked and deep i can't even keep

my head up for the love of you. the price is steep

for mistakes that i repeat, with no one to blame

but me.

this is the secret to mistakes,

and learning from them with haste.

to think of others instead of greed;

you'll find that you change quite willingly.

Almost the whole world is locked down. Everyone is frightened and worried. No one is certain about tomorrow. In this quarantine time period, past particularly mistakes flash back in our memories. The streaks of tears caused by us haunt us. Karma with its iron claws terrifies us. Our evil deeds laugh at us. We are praying for the well being of our loved ones but the little monsters hidden in us remind us of the hearts broken by us. But it is still not the ending. We still have time. So own your mistakes and learn from your mistakes. A world without any heinous plotting, heart shattering crimes and evil plannings would be far better.Think about it.

I should learn from my mistakes -

realize you weren't good for me

accept that we aren't meant to be

and recognize that it is better this way.

A part of me knows I shouldn't try to get you back,

but I miss you so much.

I should move on,

but for some reason,

I just can't.

Push yourself to the limit

Get the body you want

Be loud and proud

Maybe then you’ll find love

Not someone to love

Just love in your self

That’s what they said

But I’m sitting here

Looking exactly like I dreamed

Yet I’m more miserable

Then I could ever be

But that’s just my mistake

Maybe I’ll learn someday

~ This life is not what it looks like believe me