I can hear the blood,
Pulsing in my veins as I
Turn the page over.
I sculpt my future,
With the tip of a plain nib,
I am carving stone.
I rest my chisel,
How many clean slates have I
blemished by tear drops.
The ink washes off
But the words remain etched in
The palms of my hands.
Nor fire nor water,
And no amount of soap can
Rid me of my fate.
However I must,
Hope for that tomorrow,
Persevere I must.
That moving finger
Has writ what it may, but I
Hold onto the pen.
I am not defined,
By but a single letter
Of the alphabet.