The Crimson Feather Pen

Sometimes I wish people had a little more vinegar in their piss.

I wasn't born a warrior. Like all mankind, I was a helpless, naked, infant dependent on it's mother to feed it and wipe its ass every time it took a shit. Life shapes and changes the contours of our face. The chuby cherub is molded and squeezed to look the part of who it really is. Have you ever seen a warrior with a babyface?

We, warriors, are pointed at by accusatory fingers of aggressors who can't see beyond our skin. We bleed each day. Internal wounds pronounce themselves, clearly, as smiles on our lips.

In a situation of crisis, everyone has a finger to point; someone to blame.

A warrior is born of two things; truth and intestinal fortitude. Fear weakens a warrior....never concede. Yes, death is a possibility. But, would you rather die a warrior, or someone who betrays their conscience?

We wear warrior marks well. We aspire to live..........and die, having lived well.