April 2012
“I write one page of masterpiece to ninety one pages of shit.”
– Ernest Hemingway to F. Scott Fitzgerald, Letters of Note: Forget your personal tragedy
Angst
Under the night, night sky
A blanket of nature’s smoky colors
Vibrant memories of what used to be
And what will be
But the latter is less enticing to dwell on
So I don’t.
I wander without my wits
Struggling to grapple reality and also
The zipper I’m trying to unzip
A lipless seduction
A fruitless mission
A warmth unmatched
An unhappy teenage drama queen with daddy issues
I think of...
