Pens and knives are my demise, both are part of my disguise. The pens my joy, the knives my grief both holds secrets that lie beneath. I write my stories in red, and gray and hope my death has no delay. I lack the courage to speed it up but lack the will to stop it. But if you asked I would hold on, if you asked I would stay strong. I show you the scars of the battles I've lost and the stories of the wars I've won. I show you the secrets I hold within and here is where it all begins.
