He sits with a pen in his hand. Prepared to make a final stand... again.
Ready to face his fears, to say amen.
Around and around, it's the same every time.
Repenting daily, yet commits the same crime.
The sin of personal bloodshed in his own head.
Afraid of the words coming out of his mind.
Writing the things others can't find.
On his face is a calm expression, yet deepest emotion.
Afraid of what's outside his door. Is there a point to do this anymore.
And just then and every time, this question is asked, the lights comes.
The dark numbs, it'd be easy to succumb.
But he doesn't. She doesn't. They don't.
Why? It's different for everyone.
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