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without fuel, the engine will not turn. i, faulty word-machine, am low on oil. the tortured artist paints with blood their own blood, the blood of those they lost. the blood of those that harmed them. my brush is wet only with water thin lines of pigment left by small misfortunes. what is a poet without the tales to tell? i have written novels of lives that are not mine, i have poured emotion into experiences that are not my own. but the words were lies and so i stopped and made do with the anthills beside your himalayas. when i was younger i won an award. 'congratulations! your poem is great!' and i stood before a crowd of family and friends and i read: 'cherry blossom, cherry tree' soft and sweet. and then, smiling, i sat down and listened and what i heard was raw, beautiful pain. i do not have that pain. i do not have those words. but i have a mind. and so, high on the sense of freedom words provide, i write. AN: this is not my best.