Write me a river

I’m dying but the world won’t stop watching TV,
falling into the night
with tunnel vision
and clouded eyes,
heavy from the suffering filled excrement of others.

When I used to sit in the hall at 4 am,
writing as I do now,
gauging my actions only at the thought of an audience,
ripping apart my words for meaning
and raping my sentences
for their own point of view.

No one wants to know what they don’t know –
rats don’t need heroin
when the surroundings are pleasant
and friends are aplenty.

And yet, through all the muck,
there is that day,
when soft eyes fall on my figure and don’t dismiss it,
when she’ll portray my lover
and I’ll write her into being.


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