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,