It's been awhile since I've tried to write in this voice.
This voice-the voice that flows like a river through me,
now clogged by jagged rocks and wood.
Trees knocked down and turned over, trunks rolling down stream.
This river can't seem to let me free. What would the trunk be if it were free. Alone on the bank?
And the river. An empty stream?
And the rocks. They have been placed before as a guide.
Where is this voice of mine? Where is mine?

text. What is a word with no sound?
It sits still,
to become tender or to burn.
Too many words together just mash-a bright light that blinds even the light holder.
What do these words mean? No escape, no relief, but they are me.
They are mine.
Letters jumbled together to represent my thoughts.
My river of insanity dreams.


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