Not about the Civil WarCan you hear the quiet guilt of the South beckoning to the the calamity of the North? You could have, would have, might have been Almost, should have way back when The wind blew that way But it started to buckle, started to sway A little wilt a little fray Then the wind blew the opposite wayNot about the Civil War
The Injustice of LiteratureWhat injustice words do to life, that fluid thing about us. Rigidity imposed on such a form consistently unstable. The fluid is made strangely concrete as soon as the ink dries.The Injustice of Literature
Such a fickle thing life can be, Never its course predicted. The words that are meant to convey our life are ironic in their deed, For as soon as the words are written, life actually—dies.
fucking frustration
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