Twenty one years now,
And I, for the longest time have wanted to stop writing this story,
Amazed that it has never ended,
I hoped the pen would drop and I would not have pick it up again.
Waiting
Fearing
Wanting.
But the ink never runs out,
I am turning page after page.
The sadder things entice me:
I fear being happy would make me mediocre.
But this non-euphoria is getting tedious.
I change the ink bottles
Gathering dyes to write with paints
I make ecstasy in places where no one will look.
