The Right Answer

Words are the keys to my piano resting soundly inside of my beating heart.
When I flat-line,
Pens stop flowing like Tsunamis coming to a sudden halt…
Ink travels through my veins,
As blood drips with every paper cut I’ve slashed on myself…

Still,
My palms embody the magic of manifesting memories with open arms,
Past,
Present,
Future.
Which ever kind comes to mind in a world unkind,
In a world refined with darker nights,
And sunlight biting your skin,
Rather than blowing a soft kiss.
Days seem to be a little too warm…

So,
What will be tonight’s answer to solve this everlasting riddle,
A riddle I can’t seem to solve without wincing at my pulsating wounds that have yet to heal…