A True Poet At Heart.

Dead or Alive

As I lay on my back and rock myself back and forth, similar to the way you rocked my body before making your way to the top of my mountain, I contemplate whether my life is worth living. With a handful of smoke  in one hand and a bottle full or persuasion in another, I reflect on the decisions I've made leading up to this. This is my cliff. Looking down it appears to be a long fall but how would I know if I don't take the risk. Risk and Mistakes, What's the difference?
Risk: a situation involving exposure to danger
(But isn't that what my life consists of)
Mistake: an inaccuracy
(But isn't my birth into this sinful and evil world inaccurate)
Maybe it was according to the good Lord's will. But not to a woman of 23, whose hips are wide with breast that stand out, she is fresh meat that is bound to be tossed into a lion's dean only to be eaten alive by the wolf dressed in sheep's clothing. She's the Little Red Riding Hood whom is bound to be devoured by the wolf. But with the bravery of Little Red, she conquers all. Yet she is left to suffer the consequences of this mess she has made and is left to lie in it alone while this demonic creation of theirs begins to flourish. For God to be the creator, whom creates us in his like, why would he make me so much like the man I was bound to have a heart full of hatred for. Is it possible that my very first heartbreak was caused by someone who I share the same bloodline with? So here I am, fighting demons that aren't even mine, but demons that have been with me since I was an embryo inside of my mother's womb. I struggle with self. I ask myself daily, "Who the fuck am I?" Yet my question is still not answered. Just like my question as to why did my father abandon me, his one and only little girl, for his turpitude creation that's provided me with memories that will haunt me every waking moment until the day they burn my body.
Dead or Alive.
Or should I fast forward this agony and put my foot to the medal. More like the blade to me hand.
Wait, neck.
Wait, wrist.
NO, my thigh!
In the same exact spot where I used to cut. Tracing my old wounds, only to make deeper incisions...