Numbers inked in red.

When I got my exam results, they weren't as good as I wanted them to be,

But I will not beat myself up about it.

I'll simply try harder next time.

Because although I didn't do my best, I did better.

And I believe that there's more to life than numbers inked in red on a page.

I want to live a quiet, simple life.

Where pleasure is so easily found in something as simple as cooking pasta that finally tastes just right,

And the joy of having a sweet cup of cold tea,

And the familiarity of a pen in between your fingers,

And the relief when the words pour out of your soul before you even try.

I want to be all there is to be,

And to see all there is to see,

And to read all there is to read.

I want to live life to the fullest, because life is ephemeral, and you only live it once.

Every thought must count.

Every stroke of this pen must count.

Every drop of this ink must count.

Every key I press must count.

Everything I create must count,

And I must make it beautiful.

What is one without the other?

What is a man without his thoughts,

And what are thoughts if not inked?

What is poetry, if it sits on a page and looks so perfect, but doesn't make you feel anything?

What is poetry, if it doesn't bleed from the hand that writes it, and doesn't drip from our tongues like the sweet, raw honey we scarcely find?

I want to grow old, in a garden full of tea leaves and mango trees and rows and rows of orchids,

To sit on a swing and feel everything around me so deeply.

I'd wake up in the wee hours of morning, and go for a walk,

And I'd come back holding a rope tied to the rising sun.

I'd make a lovely cup of tea, cold and sweet, and drink it with someone I love,

And I'd realize that there are more important things in life than the sheet of paper with numbers inked in red I had thrown away decades ago.

CleverQuacks