I watched her tilt the cup
gently towards her lips
Sipping on her favorite tea—
one made of and for thought.
A late evening of craving kicks in once more.
Letting her eyes settle
on blank pages
of her renowned thick journal.
Yes, I whispered to myself,
Stay this way.
Keep thinking,
keep writing,
keep living.
She continuous in little furies
of the same drink order
and of colorful scribbles,
tearing little pieces of herself
(printed with her personality)
to stick onto the paper.
How much more ink will she bleed,
how much more tea leaves will she drink
to drown out her sorrows,
akin to those inhalers of burning leaves?
Among the words which sustain you,
overdose is the only one which doesn't exist.
You are addicted to tea,
to the world around you,
and to the words around you.
This is you, and this is how you live,
with an end waiting for you,
despite knowing it's only the beginning
whenever you hold your pen.
Your mind, tongue and hands will fade,
but your thoughts and words
will live on forever.