Comforted lunatics.

I find comfort in paragraphs,

in believing my words can come across

someone else’s eyes and heal.

And who couldn’t,

I keep writing all my discomforts

that somehow comfort strangers,

believing either we are all lunatics 

or neither one of us,

a thought can grow a set of wings

and fly away to forgotten,

but when we write it

it becomes a story, real or not

powerful enough to catch a tear,

laughter or sadness,

that might even heal.

Isn’t this what us lunatics call “magic”?

experiencing what we haven’t lived,

only art can do that.

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Comforted lunatics.

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