My pain is numbing,

it is becoming common place.

I am ready for an end to this -

but someone has to choose an ending.

This is my story,

my life,

my book.

But I’m not the one writing it.

These are my cries,

my hardships,

my tear stained pages.

There are no pictures

in my book.

My life is exactly

as you choose to see it.

It is as happy as you think it is.

My life is as good as you view it.

It is as depressing as you believe it is.

I want so badly to write my own book -

to create it,

to tell its story.

I want to write its ending,

but I can’t.

It is not up to me

to end it.

I just have to wait,

watch,

as others let ink flow

onto the pages.

I wish I could write the final chapter.

I’d like to finish it,

create its ending.

Too bad.

They continue to write,

the torture continues.

Are we nearing the final chapters?

Will there be a sequel?

I’d like to know.