He sat there, meticulously searching for the right words, knowing better than anyone that words were weapons & his pen was a dagger.

His words spilled onto the page, like flames engulfing its prey.

His fingers – blood red – as he nervously strummed his guitar, hoping his words would find the right strings. He closed his eyes as he felt the nylon vibration between his fingers, the hum of the chords filling the deafening silence that reverberated in his head.

As his fingertips succumbed to its rhythm,                                                                                           he closed his eyes one last time.

The pounding of his heart became louder & a single tear fell while the words poured from his lips like wine in an overflowing glass . . .it was as if suddenly the crushing pressure in his chest had finally subsided, releasing all that he had held back for so long….

He was finally  f r e e .

*Dedicated to my best friend, Scott O., who has always supported me, on his journey to following his dreams.

© Gina Jenkins


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