Ask of me my troubles,
I wouldn't know where to start.
Ask to share my joy,
And I’d get lost in layers of darkness,
Simply searching for a worthy glimpse.

The thing about new lives are —
finding where the old ones end.

Why are the beginning of life stories skipped over?
An authors job is not to choose where to begin.
Why do we feel the need to fill life with action or tragedy?
An authors ending isn't created but rather written through.
Why do we force a story if it doesn't fit the mood?
The fact of the matter is, an author can only choose “when” to write.

The thing about old lives are —
deciding when the new ones begin.

Ask of me my high spirits,
I wouldn't know where not to look.
Ask to share my pain,
And I’d be blinded by the depth of light,
Simply searching for a sliver still fresh.