My face isn't carved in a mountain. I've never been struck by lightning.
I've never saved a crying baby from a burning house fire nor have I over come my misfortunes in life to acquire a name for myself. I consider myself a writer although all I've written is only pieces of torn limbs of my distraught existence.
Everything is a poem to me, it's my shorthand.
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Tuesday, June 10, 2025
Quarantine the freedom of speech!
My words flow across this piece of paper
like an epidemic, pandemonium, a tsunami of Truth!
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