Photo by Chilam Siu on Unsplash

I can fit all my faces into the headspace of a book.
In the book, between every line a confession waits.
Waiting for confession, I sit in the pews of the church.
Spewing sermon and half-baked prayer I am mindful.
Mind full of ideas half-baked in the sun like roadkill.
Killers or their supporters all about the morning roads.
Mourning, now, violence in another country, or lack thereof.
Their lack of compassion is because they are filled with hate.
I hate the way they do not recognise their own selves.
Barely recognising myself in the mornings, I wash up.
On a shore faraway from here, the body of boys wash up.
I am fascinated with bodies – of boys, of girls, of myself.
I would like to put my selves in a museum for everyone to see.
To see is to validate, to acknowledge one’s ugly feelings.
I feel ugly when I think that everyone could think like that.
To think that calling for the slaughter of protestors is good.
To talk about deaths with laughter, to protest otherwise.
Other wise men have already left this world for better pastures.
Yet, there is no better past for us to have been born in.
To be born is a blessing and a curse, but I live on still.
I live; I still grow; I accept; I become better; I live; I live; I live.

Freewriting Explanation: Every day, Valen shall use 5 minutes to write completely unprompted and uninterrupted, letting the words lead the way. There is no end purpose to each piece, but rather, the pieces are allowed to develop naturally in their own way. The pieces are then uploaded without edits.

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