I am the billion words I have written,

reveling at the stars every

clear night, the one who laughs at a joke

two hours from the telling, the social

warrior who protests, and socially 


I am a billion more words I read, 

stories and prose, 

poetry and philosophy,

the one who observes, unobserved.

And I am pain, struggle, heartache,

and defeat. My body moves against its 

will some days, my hope, inflated.

It’s a tireless event that favors

only the broken mind,

a moment in a morning,

kept by a bed, and a query:

will today be better than the last?

I am isolated, 

imprisoned by thoughts

of anguish and worry, stupified at 

grander notions masquerading as “help”, 

wanting some measure of


Who now reads my words can contend?

Only silence, my closest ally,

and hope.


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