I keep a jar upon the shelf,
A quiet truce with my own self.
Inside, are ghosts of sleepless thought,
The battles lost, the ones I fought.
Each scrap of paper holds a sigh,
A why, a wound, a last goodbye.
I fold them small so they won’t shout,
Then twist the lid and lock them out.
The jar grows heavy through the year,
With whispers only I can hear.
Regrets that hum like distant rain,
Old echoes softened, not in vain.
And when it’s full, I strike a match,
Release the ache I couldn’t catch.
The smoke ascends, the past unspools,
Its ashes drift like broken rules.
Some pain still lingers, faint but true;
Forgot does not mean gone from view.
Yet lighter now, I breathe, I start,
A little space reclaimed by heart.
So let the jar be what it seems—
A vessel made for broken dreams.
Not to erase, but to forgive—
To make more room for what may live.