A Scribe in Training

Moments like these,

I fall to my knees.

I cry out loud,

Forgive me please.

The scribe

is not someone who writes,

but instead

the one who breathes.

They take in this world

courageous like the Sun

goes to their duty

before the day has begun.

I am no scribe.

No poet to say the least.

I could bear no burden.

It would shatter my beliefs.

Believe me though,

when I say,

light

doesn’t have to bend that way.

I was reminded today

who I am.

And now

who I was.

It felt nice,

rage and all,

I couldn’t get through to them.

Not until I fall.

I like to remain collected.

Absolute to the world.

Is this a crime?

Depends on whether I crawl.

Anger flooded my eyes.

I drank blood at my own demise.

It felt right to lash out loud.

For my thoughts to be heard.

I just wish they knew the cost.

The vibration that my body remains,

even after the life

in my eyes drain.

I sit here,

now wanting to cry.

Or maybe to die.

And I don’t know why.

Life is this internal game

that we are so lucky to play.

I mean that.

Who we are is nothing but what we have become.

I am me,

surely that should be enough.

But in me,

they sit.

Upon a throne.

Picking and prying,

saying

they are home.

I don’t like the control they have.

Getting me to split

apart my order.

so that I will start all over.

With time away,

I could breathe

I now see the light

within me.

I don’t think they like that,

and I’m learning not to care,

but the devil inside me

is self-aware.

My brothers and sisters,

humans if you may,

I hope you join,

as we pray for today.

As a scribe in training,

the pen is never far.

For life when full,

is always hard.