Unexpected Journey
Life is a cruel bitch.
She cut my throat, and left a hack, a slur.
A stumble in my speech, a stagger in my step.
My quill hasn’t changed,
Just the hand that guides it,
Tremors twitching out tales only I can tell.
By the dim light that’s now my birthright,
I cobble words together,
Well-schooled in the grit of my own hell.
These nicks, these knocks, they’re mine,
My souvenirs of survival.
The story of my life carved for all to see.
Mementos from when Death danced near.
But He fell against my endless determination,
My relentless gasping struggle to keep inhaling.
Keep inhaling.
So, I’ll write for those who dare to hear,
The slurred voice from a damaged throat.
A voice hat has been slashed, then repaired.
In the end, though, it won’t be about the scars,
Or the way I wade through this world.
Mine is not a tale of a broken, battered man.
No, mine is of a fighter, an echo of us all.
