Like a handprint in cement
An indelible mark has been left
My identity has been bent
At the point where your fingers pressed.

Some people leave their marks
All over your identity;
Some leave beautiful art
And others graffiti obscenities.

I’ve always hated it when authors seem to find joy
In killing my favorite characters.
With gleaming eyes they toy
With turmoil in every chapter.

Just when they’ve got you attached
To the character’s quirks and flaws
To their words and their demons
Just when you’ve fallen in love
With the character’s identity—
With a cruel turn of the lip
The author smirks and kills them off
And at our gasped pleas, merely scoffs.

But the author was God
And my favorite character was you
And I still can’t believe
You’re gone.

Pressure knocks at my door
A clock ticks and demands its due
The lava burns from the floor
But not in a game like it used to.

So little time to figure it all out
So many distractions to prevent success
I’m in a dark forest with no path or route
But this internal fire knows no rest.

The moment you realize that the only determining factor in your life is you is the moment you start living.

We talk so much yet we have nothing to say.

At least I find solace in searching.