and my happiness seemed to reside in my ability to keep my mouth shut,
my head down,
my pen to the paper,
They told me to write what I knew,
and I only knew of death,
of a particular kind of solitude,
the casualty of which were my written harangues,
my schizophrenic rants in defense of the heartbroken,
I was so very afraid they would think I felt sorry for myself,
as I did not,
frightened they would find my fears pedestrian,
prosaic,
unworthy of the conversation of mortality,
unworthy of my elders
They made me out to be a fool,
but at night,
I lie awake in the wake of their slumber,
a toiling scribe with more than enough to leave behind
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