I find comfort in reveries written by men who barely breathe, or by women who find power in paper cast out because they lack political favor.
Stories by the wealthy and bored fortunate but ****** enough to find life a chore, the pensive folk who peer and pry **** our thoughts into newfound high.
We guess that they have measured motive to gorge on fame until they're bloated, or make their mark on mortal minds in desperate ploys to outlast time.
Some riddled and ruined by reality who write to quell not critics but poverty, knowing that genius might swim in scribbles that earn a few pennies little by little.
All cut from the same curious cloth willing to lay naked every thought, for everyone and no one to see and savor but for at least a single soul to find some flavor.
God forget the queen and save these paupers the indifferent financiers of mind's coffers, the absent yet ever-present teachers the ones who give new breath to life's creatures.
And every ****** or rosy rhyme owes its rhythm to well-spent time, of imperfect souls and fearless fighters the poets, the storytellers, the righteous writers.
Thank you to every person who spreads literacy through thoughtful writing, poetry, or storytelling. You're doing the world an amazing service.