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  • As I wake, and I shake the fragments and shards
    That bound and rebound around my yawning brain,
    I try to piece together the message in the strains of coherence
    that were departed to me just minutes before hand;

    But this is a foreign tongue, in a strange new land.
    When the words that I speak aren't the ones that I'd thought,
    and the voice is one that I've not heard before;

    But what does this mean?
    Was it all just a dream?
    Or is there meaning and depth to this transient scene?

    I know what it isn't; it isn't a scam.
    It's heart-felt and primal, and completely unplanned.
    It's yearning, it's powerful, it's dying to get out,
    but I just can't grasp it no matter how hard I shout.

    It's frustrating, this want – this need to be heard
    But it feels like I'm powerless - and a little absurd.
    It seems that my dreams are stronger than my conviction, and my expression;
    no more withstanding than the paper I write my thoughts on.

    If I were great, then this would be effortless!
    But I'm not, and it isn't.
    And I'm afraid I digress: I get distracted and captured
    in the rapture of existence
    -or otherwise totally consumed by art.
    Then I forget what I'm here for, and I have to restart.

    But that never changes what I feel inside,
    this want to do good, that I simply can't hide;
    this desire to converse, to help and to save.
    To bring calm, and awareness, to quell hatred and rage.
    But they say things worth doing are never that easy
    and I find that most folks just judge of misread me.

    If I could just get it together,
    I feel I could transform the whole world,
    but it seems all I'm left to work with,
    is someone else's words.
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