I walk in monologue through Berkeley's Hills Feet pressing into sidewalk firmly I eat the pensive mood solitude brings And bite into the juiciness of self-reflection I write, first time in years, free verse impromptu Taking few dozen steps between each pair of lines I yearn, on tip-toes stretching high, to be expressive A mode of being longtime self-denied I'm walking home - from job I'll soon be leaving To find myself believing once again That which I do defines me not and feeling That which I am is good. enough. a lot.
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