I’d like to report a theft.

My Zen has been stolen.

The perpetrator can be described
as tall, somewhere
between 5 foot 11 and 6 feet.

He’s got blue/green eyes
and a charming smile
that is both deceptive and
rarely reflective of his mood.

His face is frequently unshaven and
he has
a blanket of hair
covering his chest.

He is worried his hairline is
receding
and that he will have a Hunter Thompson
balding pattern by
the time he is 30.

He meditates, but
not as often as he should.

He wonders if he will die
alone
with no one to love him
in the way he needs.

He writes poetry.
He plays guitar.
He writes songs and stories,
hoping to hit some truth underneath
the words he types.

He hopes truth will save him.

He wonders if anyone is listening
and if all his endeavors
are pointless.

He stole his own Zen.

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