Written In Inks Of Red

There are either inks of black, blue or red, and these mould us to who we are today.

Searching for smiles, I go, page by page, line by line.

But that which I seek, I fail to get, 90% of the time.

Up there is my book of experience, so crude, I don't even know how to refine.

Most times, its either I see an insult, deceit, betrayal, or things related to crime.

And with the thought of suicide growing stronger day by day, like palm wine.

I flip the pages and ask myself, "could all these memories be mine?"

Experience of disappointment, resentment, abuse, failure, etc, that send chills down my spine.

Sometimes, I wish I could pull dem out or just burn it all, restart and gradually climb.

Cause even the bright days therein couldn't give me a better countenance than someone who licked a lime.

Written in inks of red are the days that made me who I am.

Days that motivates me like early morning alarm.

Those moments that turn one to an angel or something so terrible and should be feared!!!

Those days that made me me, in my memory book, are WRITTEN IN INKS OF RED!!!

Vee 📓✍️