Breath

The Ink with the Pen

The ink started off clear,

Unblemished,

And pure,

Like the first snow of winter

White,

Bright,

Unscathed

Invisible.

The ink flew across the page,

Excited,

Impatient,

And curious.

A child exploring,

With the world at her fingertips

Oblivious to the darkness that was the world around her.

The pain,

The sorrow,

The ugly truth.

And soon, the ink started to color,

It started to seep in knowledge about the world around it.

It started to darken.

As each stroke of the pen brought it to new places,

And new challenges.

The ink would weave around obstacles,

Of the mind,

Of the body,

Of the heart,

Of the soul.

It would surpass,

Adversity,

Growing up,

And deciding what was right.

It would darken

And mature.

As each line was written,

Verse was penned,

Chapter was completed,

In her

Personal

Story.

Many times,

The ink would falter,

The pen would go weak,

And wish to stop,

To cease.

The idea was appealing,

But deadly.

So the pen kept pushing on,

And the ink refused to stop writing.

She is still writing today.

She will still write tomorrow.

Until her story is done.