My Own

I am lost in pages.

Words leading me a fool.

Each paragraph loses me as the sentences come together

None really making any sense.

Jumping from idea to idea

none commiting

always failing

dieing

or losing grasp from my hands.

Stories lost like legends

but these are never finished

nor will they be ever heard of again.

My sword weakens as it scraps against paper

scratching and scraping for anything to bring a rhythm 

I so selfishly took advantage in youth.

Though I know these sad truths,

I still run through the pages,

I let the words lead me as they have,

and I take the nonsense and chaos my broken and chipped sword writes out.

Because its the only thing I have,

even if they hurt, I’ll take them because they are

my own, and I cherish each one.