Breathing is like pen to paper—like a paper plane flying with writing hidden inside a single page—
Who will get the last say?
Who will find the message left behind?
Maybe it will land in the water and become a boat holding all the hope an entire ocean can hold—
Maybe it will go its own way on a journey to a new place.
Maybe it will find me someday.
Everyday I ask myself,
“What am I doing with my life?”
And sometimes… I feel fear when the words escape my mouth–
Like they are running into the unknown,
Quickly being ripped away from me
Without giving an answer to the emptiness I am left with.
I meet a crisis everyday.
I ask myself when this anxious feeling will end
So I can begin again,
But I haven’t found the solace yet.
I haven’t discovered relief from the questions.
Today I ask myself,
“Am I a part of the living, or am I closer to death?”
A Poet's Pen 