Today I choose to bleed,
At the typewriter I chose
Like Hemingway once said.
Is it any wonder that the
Stories I write lie at the
Crossroads between life and death?
Hope and despair, wonder and loss?
But these words I utter are not
Mine, I am only a borrower.
I can only hope to string along
The best ones that I can find,
Doomed to never be fully satisfied.
Is it any wonder that I imagine
Stories where a young girl is trapped
Inside a house which lies in the void?
Stories about a nihilistic knight
Who failed to protect his sister?
About a father who rages against fate
When a cruel prophecy is fulfilled?
These words are not mine,
But through them I bleed
In order to tell my own story.
