No one is telling me what to write. This pen possesses infinite ink. These eyes possess infinite insight. No one is telling me what to think. This brain possesses infinite thought. No one is telling my ears what to listen to. These ears hear the sounds of a thousand generations. If, tomorrow, I woke up as God, I would resign my position immediately. I would not want to decide the course of billions of lives; I would want simply to hide. To be a crawling ant in a forgotten crevice. To climb an unbounded ladder, knowing not what waits at the top. To be the serene water in a stretching sea. To be a faraway star in a distant planet. To glow with the force of a billion beating human hearts and believe that human potential is infinite. No one told me to write this poem. No one told my hands to type these words on this keyboard. No one told me to gravitate towards words as if they can sustain me and no one told me that something, or someone, limits my potential. A destitute man sits on the muddied concrete of the sidewalk. Who am I to tell him that circumstance constricts him? Who is Fate to limit his potential to a mathematical formula, to the distance between point A and point B? I believe his potential is infinite. I believe that one day, he will rise from the muddied concrete. One day, he will rise and we will rise and we will know that poverty exists only in the minds of those who prize circumstance over infinite ink and he will rise and we will rise and we will know that A and B are just letters of the alphabet and we have yet to traverse all this distance in between.