Write from the shoulders. The throat. The hands.
My shoulders carry the weight,
of generations past,
the effort of those who struggled,
to provide the life I now possess.
My hands bear the calluses,
of those who labored,
to keep my brow free from heaviness.
And yet,
my feet refuse to move,
as I stand motionless,
overwhelmed,
by the blank page they have set before me,
my own struggle amplified,
by the silence of my own existence.
secret fox
May 1
May 1, 2026 at 4:49 PM UTC