It was once stated that the ink of the scholar is more sacred than the blood of the martyr,
Hence, I didn’t write these words,
I became them,
Paper, my flesh…
Ink, My blood…
The finished product,
My soul…
With every stroke of the pen, it’s like a slit to the wrist, making my paper and life grow progressively shorter,
The more I write, the more I see the light as if the end were near,
Perhaps I am a martyr,
Who’s found heaven within his notebook, where I die every night for what I believe in…
Or perhaps it is my notebook where I am most alive,
Where the pages of my life are so eloquently scribed-
In pen,
Sometimes wishing that I could erase the past,
But I can’t,
So that makes this poem,
My life,
Who I am.
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