what we often call a mistake might actually be a deliberate decision.
They say I stumbled, took a wrong turn,
A flame too close, and watched it burn.
But truth, like ash, clings to the skin:
I knew the cost before the sin.
They call it error, blind and brief,
A lapse of heart, a thief of grief.
Yet I recall the quiet thrill,
The hush before the blood went still.
No trembling hand, no fogged intent,
Each step I took was heaven-sent,
Not from the skies, but from below,
Where whispered wants begin to grow.
A smile curled behind my face,
A shadow danced in guiltless grace.
And when the world began to break,
I never claimed it was mistake.
So let them speak of wrongs and rights,
Of twisted days and haunted nights.
But in the dark, I hold my voice.
Some things we do
are done by choice.
"some mistake is not a mistake but a choice."
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