Picture on my hand

I took my pen and started writing my destiny on my hand. I drew lines I didn't understand. Some I drew of the tree's roots that I watch daily. Some like the guitar strings I listen daily. Some weaved like the sweater my grandmother made for me and some like the creased bedsheets that I have kept unkempt for long. My pen flows on me and my destiny lines become poetry of my flesh. I try to read it and get myself entangled. I try to solve it and draw more and more lines. I can see a picture now that appears to be like a kindergarden scribble. I get desperate and try harder. My hands are bleeding now. I use it to add more colours. I realise that I am dying of blood loss.

My acquaintances tell me that I am a suicidal psychopath that I need to be treated. Just to shut their mouths I was my hands. I see scars and patches that  seem to be familiar. I see in them one of my ruined painting that I abandoned long ago. In remorse, I search for those paintings and start amending them. A few days later, my acquaintances returned and told me that the painting was the most beautiful piece I ever created.

I look at my hand and notice that it has started healing. There are lines on it already given by God. The lines that I once questioned and rebelled against.
I realised that lines don't matter after all.
But later I made a bunch of ink drawn lines in my dairy, my life. World calls it poetry.

When the hard times knock at your door. It seems that the door is screaming and pleading to be opened. You ignore because you are well aware of the consequences. But one day the door breaks. And the hard times step in. How much ever we try, we cannot stop some things. They are inevitable. You should prepare yourself till the time your door looses hope. So that one day you will be strong enough to make another one.