10/12/2022
I write.
I combine letters into calloused words
with these overworked hands. The
words are bumpy and rough and hard;
hard earned; shielded from everyday
wear and tear. Words that are nothing
more than a projection of my hardened,
once fragile ego.
My neurons fire erratically, unpredictably,
yielding disjointed thoughts and phrases.
Yet still I write them down. Hunting for
hidden meaning in, around, and between
the individual letters and lines on the page.
Sometimes it feels like a futile attempt
at matching a bullet casing to a mangled
round lodged in a brick wall. But like any
good detective, I continue my search
until I solve the case. And some mysteries
(like his one) are harder to solve than others.