I had thoughts on the bus today.
That maybe slitting my throat.
Or even my wrists,
Would be an easy way out.
I imagined the cold blade against my skin,
The warm blood trickling out. Instead,
I only felt the warm tears,
Falling against my cold heart.
For a moment I was selfish,
Thought of easy ways out.
But I am not weak.
I can fight through this,
Or so I thought.
It seems as if all I have hoped for,
Always crumbles and falls apart
So I pray to you God,
Please give me a pencil and eraser next time,
For it seems I am writing my story with ink,
And ink can't be erased.
My mistakes just make up a smile,
They laugh at me.
I begin to fumble with words,
Trying to make it all better.
It's as if you wanted it this way, Lord,
I hold the pen just like you asked,
Just like you taught me,
Yet my story never has a good outcome.
If each year was a chapter,
I'd say there is a mistake in each one,
That'd be that I ever took my first breath.
But at the same time,
All the mistakes I write,
They seem to make me better with my words.
Maybe one day I won't fumble as much.
But until that day,
I need someone else to help me,
Help me hold this heavy pen.
For I still have a big story to finish.
Because all stories have a happy ending,
I plan to write the happiest one.