Him: I was an alcoholic for ten years. For ten years, i drenched my liver in alcohol.
Me: But why?
Him: I sought answers my dear, answers.
Me: In alcohol?
Him: Alcohol numbed the brains that tormented me with questions i was losing my life searching for answers to.
Me: Thank God your still alive
Him: Death came as close as it could get, but my clock is still ticking. The mind is getting acquainted with peace now, i found my answers.
Me: I’m not sure if my search has even begun.
Unanswered questions. Tormented minds. Blind tomorrows. Uncertain futures. Scripted destinies. Tainted yesterdays. Brave hearts. Undying hope.
I am looking for my answers
We live to understand the consequences of the choices we make, as we unfold predetermined destinies. Yet still, the chase has always been the best part of the journey.
Mystery has a way with beauty, i guess. It’s in the way the free-flying bird is so much more than the bird in hand, seemingly. Or the whole notion of a tomorrow burdened with so much dreams as it struggles with its own reality.
And with yesterdays tainted with pitch-black stains, the burden only weighs more on tomorrow.
A tomorrow whose weight drips off its shoulders as it makes its way through a labyrinth of dark alleys and lonely highways
I am looking for my tomorrow,
But today, in a world so weary, with hearts so heavy, and a tomorrow so hazy,
and as all darkness holds,
I choose my Pen.
For my quiet in the noise, and the silent breeze of peace
To keep awake a dream so alive,
To breath. Maybe bleed.
I choose, my pen
Just as a new-born babe holds on to the mother’s finger outside the warmth of the womb, I’ll hold on to you,
and watch as you build your home in these hands with cuts and crevices on the surface of tender skin that i shall sew with a needle of lines and a thread of words,
and together we shall stain our strides on this earth with bleeding fingertips.
Until the tendons in the hands cannot hold on to you anymore,
and the veins run dry and we have bled all the blood there was to bleed,
and the lungs deflate and there is no more air to be breathed,
then you shall lay down to rest,
and live to tell your tale,
the tale of the pen that lived in the hands that bled.