Four drab walls with smog in the
window … dark streets below no
one dares to walk through …
creaky bed, small table with a
wobble …there’s a hotplate on
the window sill.
The bathroom is down the hall.
There’s a public phone down it,
too, although you never get a call.
The radio on the dresser was
purchased from a thrift shop.
The classical music you play on it
always sounds a little shocked.
A shoebox filled with rejection
slips lies on the floor of the closet.
Next to it is a stack of literary
magazines with funky names.
Each one has a sample of your
work in it – which makes it all
worth it. It had better. It’s all
you’re going to get.
Life’s road is a scar, cut by a
butcher. The tears of each
generation water the graveyard of
civilization. And yet dreams still
flicker in the darkness, our only
ray of hope in chaos. You try
to get that on paper. Tell those
stories few could comprehend
about the places you have been.
Sometimes you wonder why you
bother. Even if manage to shed
some light on the human condition
The world will be the same tomorrow.

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