I don´t know how to do anything. I´m trying to move mountains with words. But I am an ant. I scribble. I drool. I move like a worm whose world (words) encompassed a mile. How do I rise above? Where will this worm find wings? I look in the mirror and I see filth. Who is that? Where did The Angel go? Why is there dirt staring bad at me? Why is the soil of incompetence beneath my nails? Why does doubt paint blue rings beneath my eyes and stain my skin? Why does my spine assume failure? Why do my lips flirt with the sky? Why do I try to lasso? Beauty with such a pitiful rope? Where is the hair of Rapunzel or Samson? Where is my sling? Where is my stone? My gun? Where is the weapon with which I may fight this apathy that feels like sleep in my limbs, that loosens my brothers smilie, that kills my neighbours daughter? This pen is scrawny and hardly seems able to ink out or erase this plague that infests my generation. This giant, this beast, this death, that assumes a million faces, that borrows my own.