How lucky am I to start all over again—
not because I wanted to, but because I had to.
How lucky am I to meet strength
in the dark alleyways of pain.

How lucky am I to rebuild my life from wreckage,
to gather scattered pieces
with bleeding hands
and a heart that still hopes.
How lucky am I
not to have gotten the thing I thought I needed.

How lucky am I to fall,
to get up,
and fall again—
because I dare to keep trying.
How lucky am I
to write like this,
to wrestle fury into words,
to tame the wild stallion of anger
with nothing but a pen
and trembling hands.

Anger—
that fiery guest sent from beyond,
knocking not politely but with both fists,
demanding to be heard
after years of my silence.
I held my tongue so long
it began to dissolve in my mouth—
the taste of truth turned bitter.

But now, I speak.
Now, I write.
Now, I breathe this flame into form.

And how lucky am I
to turn—this rage, this sorrow, this storm—
into something
that might light the way.

This storm is stripping away
everything that no longer serves.

Karin Sabrina