A Young Man Writes Life

I have nothing to tell. This is my life.
I do nothing to tell about.
This is my life and I am lost.
The context of hope is
my bridge to nowhere. A small fire of
a man, am I, dying in orange crystal.
Cinders become dark now
along the narrow horizon of morning
and one is one. This is not my place
with you. Look around and you see, I don’t.
Take it, my place, you will
see nothing that you know, it is me.
I smell foreign smells and taste the
breath of a different heartbeat. It is called
rapid sound and everything other than you.
Can we be together here today?
Can you take my blank page and
give me words and their memories? I am
a man with no name,
a weak representation
of what I am taught, a memory that will not
live until tomorrow.
Give me words, help me form a vision
of myself and I will become me
in sight and in remembrance, me
in life. I am life, a voice, today.
This is my paper, a blank page.
I will give it words.


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