I look upon the door in front of me
Chances adding, subtracting it seems
I wish I can do more than the usual means
We're all still hoping for change right?

Inside me, lives a plethora of inner thoughts
Many things I live for and also things I wasted for nought
In the star-filled sky I wish for more
Even just someone I can adore

But we all have wishes besides what's inside me
Some may be living, some may be suffering
I am only a speck of dust in a bigger picture
I am part of the joint in a wider mixture

So what I wish and wish it may tell what my life would be
In this hand of mine, filled with possibility
Tell me your story and I'll tell mine
As our perspectives are different
But they all intertwine

I can't get through any other way.
My last pen running out of ink is a thousand times worse
than my throat being too hoarse to scream,
or duct tape plastered over my lips.
Because asking "What?" with my voice never gave me a real answer.
Which should be expected, I guess, because "What?" is not a real question.
I do it to ask myself if I am wrong.
I do it to hug myself even if I am.
Or if I have been wronged,
and I need to accept insincere or
unsaid apologies.
I write because the only place I really feel welcome,
Is in between ink and paper.
You'll find me there,
Writing.