ink or rope

it was a pen or a noose,

the only possible tools of my youth,

i chose ink instead of rope,

that's the way this story goes.

i would lie awake, thoughts racing,

speeding along the highway, 

fast enough and dangerous enough that they could hit me and 

destroy every piece of me.

sometimes the thoughts would succeed, 

they'd destroy a part of me,

scatter it, shatter it, splatter it on tar,

but i patched myself up by putting letters on a page,

put myself back together with syllables and words.

the words on a page built a ladder, 

a ladder that took me away from the highway,

i climbed up the lines and shapes,

i climbed and i climbed,

sometimes i would slip, miss a rung, 

end up back on the pavement,

but i'd get back on again,

make my way back up again.

i climbed and i climbed,

till i saw soft blue skies and warm green grass.

i blinked at the brightest light i'd ever seen,

the light of the sun shining down at me.

the golden light felt warm,

warmer than i had ever felt.

i collapsed on the grass,

whispered to myself

"thank god i chose the pen."