I did many mistakes,
I lived like a whirlwind of passion
a tornado of missteps
and a tempest  of failures.

Haven’t exactly followed a well-lit path,
more like a series of flickering flames
each igniting a new path that seemed electrifying
to lead me in the into dark tunnels
with an unsettling lack of exit signs.

Yet I manage somehow to stand, broken,
a testament to the stubborn resilience
that keeps propelling me forward,
even if it’s towards another passionate mistake.

The scars are there, etched deep failed ventures
driven by a burning desire that ultimately fizzled,
affairs that imploded disgruntled
under the weight of misplaced fervour.

Each wrong turn stung,
leaving me in the cold embrace of disappointment.
The darkness felt suffocating,
the air thick with the weight of “what ifs.”

I sift through the wreckage,
dissecting the choices lead me astray.
Was it the passion itself that was flawed,
or the way I navigated it?