Poetic Math

In a pie chart,
I belong to the highest percentage,
a hundredth, a fraction,
a tiny lump of lead,
a permanent unit among one billion
more permanent units

Take my age, divide it by a thousand
(the number I aspire to be), then
multiply by infinite: a null value. The eternity,
The constant is the solitude which accompany us
since our birth, I’m just another variable,
a miscalculation sometimes.

The truth is that I’m better in math than
in writing, but still I’m sure
one of the word birthed by my pen,
by my suffering and melancholic pen,
can change the life of even only a person,
an individual among seven billion or a little more people,
now or later.

The truth is I cannot speak
and I’m afraid my own ideas
(why should I support them,
why should I assert them).
My heart is a spark,
a pulsar within this abyss of tears.
But I keep writing because people don’t know
what is the breath of eternity.