Here The page is where I live. The page is my country. —Moudi Sbeity Here I sort out feelings, the news of another deranged shooter acting out confusion and hate Find hope in other peoples’ poems the grit to go on Without the blank page the daily ambiguity might swamp me How else to make sense of this precious, peculiar life?
How else to make sense / of this precious, peculiar life? Yes, this is why we write.
There was another shooting near a friend of mines home town yesterday I never comprehend. I really loved this line! “How else to make sense
of this precious, peculiar life?”