I am a plagiarist, because I did not create the words I use to sew myself anew. And what of my feelings, did I borrow that manifest as well? What little space I occupy, as if I could go unnoticed, in all of time and space.
Each written piece, a message, a new star, shining in darkness, waiting to be noticed.
It’s been a week since the moment, a singular moment, now a memory. I’ve almost forgotten you.
What good is an instant that does not last, what good is the future when the past is forgotten.
A headless man with a role to play, and a fan with a train ticket. What a cumbersome thing, the nothingness.
Shall I seek a doctor to ease my woe, or bear my burden as always.
Never more than a plea, never more than pages with words, unsolicited stories that aren’t often heard.
Fathers, grandfathers, and lovers, what of them, if nothing is gained for the woman.
My heart is truly bigger on the inside, and my mind is a universe of its own kind.
I do not kneel or pray. The air is plentiful and the wind is kind, renown come whispering by.