There is nothing to show them. Just sing.
The war is in your mind. The basics of necessity. The shot. The pulse. The game. It never was.
Control was never lost, it was never had. You only blinked.
The feeling of letting a bug out the door like a dog running free in a field.
The anger, what for, it wasn’t real.
Them. Not You. Them. Who?
The feeling of being a concept that doesn’t equal into the same. The summer—it’s the winter of cold concrete.
Finding strength in the lake, far removed from the tides, but you could sleep on sand by the morning.
Interesting times. No. Be there in the grip of trying to be nicer.
The insect smiles at you.
Adventures In American Writing 