Is it possible to
write and not be
a thief? Or is the
very act of existing
stealing from the lived
experiences of others -
not always those
brighter or bolder, but
those dull and dimwitted
too. Stealing. From those
with everything. And
stealing, even more, from
those with nothing.
Perhaps this is the true
nature of the world.
Theft. By each and for
each. Until we sit together
under a common blanket
of creativity - each weave
threaded by yarn stolen
from her neighbour's wheel.
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