Never mind that nothing
else has gotten done
the past four months.

One hundred thirty-seven,
now thirty-eight,
pages of poetry face
me tonight.

The word count
reads at 11,771 and
growing. Even now,
growing with every
key I deliberately strike.

This is done to tell
a story about a life
so sheltered by grace
and unwarranted freedom
that its recipient never
grew beyond its shell.

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