It’s a miracle that you survived
When every night you had to fight
To keep yourself from giving in
To your mind’s archives,
Like tattered pages and coffee stains
You felt the depth of your age
More heavily than your beaming face –
a beautiful illustration
But I know you’re not proud,
You call your words music of a kind
But I know, for just once,
You’d like to make a sound
Be heard
Your unfinished self unrestrained
Wants to speak and enter a
Territory of loss and fame,
This is your gamble, your game
Yet sometimes you wonder what
It’d be like to lose and forget
Yourself, your own name.


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