If you don’t expect your words to come back around, don’t commit your innermost shit to print. It will happen and with mixed results.

I not-so-secretly want even the stuff I only think to be broadcast. Maybe just as validation that I exist. Fame seems pointless. Some sort of confirmation that you aren’t simply something that someone dreamed can be…

Helpful?

I don’t know. I really don’t fucking know. Maybe I need the validation and this is all an exercise in ego. Or perhaps I want to leave a signpost for another addled traveler.

Both?

I’m not going to commit to either as my motivator. The words are going out into the Universe. No fear. Nobody can hurt me anymore so it’s all good.

Another poem by Ed Smith above.