What is my gift to the world?
Underneath my tics and itches
and swirling tempest
perfect, perpetual storm
I build shelter
to protect myself
from the storm I’ve created
and forget that
I’ve created it
and tell myself
that the shelter is necessary,
imperative, even.

What is my gift to the world?

Maybe it’s this…
this question
this search
this relentless process of thought

What is my gift to the world?

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