I live in the strokes of ink that leave my pen.
I’m not sure where I’m going, only where I’ve been.
I inhale hope and exhale hate.
I don’t want to be defined by my mistakes.
I feel lost, without map or compass–
Always waiting for a missed bus.
I have the world at the tip of my fingers.
Scared to reach for fear of blisters
Because the closeness burns
And the pain isn’t something I can unlearn.