As I lay in bed, awake and alone, I look at the people who cannot see and hope that someone is praying for me. But I can't see past the grid-square screen--pixels capturing a streetlight a few houses away. Bitter and condensed, I realize for the fiftieth time that I am nothing special--contradicting adoration from all of my house-wide fans.
So I watch those who are. Those who cannot see, and those who's confusions are rewarded with bracelets and empty applause.
My pen is poised like a spear in my quitting and lying hand, challenging those who doubt me. Like myself. Little does my pen know, the paper does not count as a shield.
But my pen keeps on stabbing at those who run in circles in a great big nowhere--yet the golden tip of my ballpoint pen cannot pop their lofty ideas and anchor-less prayers.
A
stab,
stab,
stab in the dark.
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