My paper bears scars that never made it to my wrists.

The battle-scars from life’s unjust wars, 

Pages and pages of minefields and mass graves on their surface,

Thank you for your service. 

Freedom and joy, a privilege I afford each day

Because my pain is left here - on paper.

My pen holds the keys to the pearly gates, 

Sees beyond to the heavens, 

Dances with my loved ones - a foot straddling either world. 

Even death himself can only stare defiantly 

As my pen fearlessly etches on teardrop-stained paper, 

And kisses them back to life.

And when laughter becomes too heavy, 

When joy is too sweet and makes my stomach turn, 

When my saint-like prayers turn into desperate mumbles, 

Heaven traces the embossed outline of the pressed scribbles on my paper, 

And receives the incense that diffuses from my ink.

Or when love fails to define herself through my body, 

Though my actions might not yet be fluent in her language, 

She will make my hand a conduit - driving it to form letters and rhymes 

To those she longs to reach.

My last breath will be through this pen, 

And though I may be at peace, I will not be at rest - 

For my words will still be forging their way through the earth on this paper, 

As long as someone will hear them. 

As long as someone can read. 

I will live on.