Thunder rattles me.
I lie in bed and stare at my bookcase:
Paper cranes stuffed in a paper cup.
A stack of old notebooks effaced by nonsense words--memories the writer can't even decipher.
Unread Baudelaire.
Unread Kant. Unread Morrison.
The ghosts of old love letters just thrown away (Well, if children's words had ghosts).
Why do certain truths swell and arise confrontations within me?
There is no love left for the loveless whose curse is knowing that no feeling can secure the existence of belonging.
There is no comfort for the wallflowers-- for the ones who sit in bars and wait for pretty faces to procure the existence of beauty.
There is no vindication for the girls who bathe in the dark and neon lights of seedy dance halls but don't move their hips or shoulders or summon a smirk at the sight of raw sound.
Why do I keep throwing my bucket down into an empty well?
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