on my own empty page

Sometimes, I wonder if i am bound to walk this Earth alone.

Have I taken a wrong turn somewhere in my past?

Or was everything preset for something greater?

The future is as blurry as my visions for what’s right,

and the present is just a heavy ball of wrong decisions.

Is there really a big golden book with my story written in it,

with all the obstacles and a happy ending at the last page?

or is it just a never-ending swaps of mornings and evenings?

My passion in life is to tell my stories, the real kind.

Seeing the beauty when the means justifies the end.

Seeing the stregnth and the courage of characters;

Of families and friends and just plain acquaintances.

There is so much to write about if you listen to people.

There is so much to tell when you see things with your heart.

Everyone else’s life story seem so great, and even horoic!

Love, decisions, hatred, forgiveness, and happily-ever-afters.

But when I glance at my own book, there’s nothing but blots of ink

on a paper once clean and white, looking forward for the chapters of life.

… but now,

it’s a parchment unused… incoherent… scratched… about to go to trash.