Because I slouch in this chair
horribly positioned,
horribly sweaty,
hoping for inspiration
and never getting any.
Devouring pages but feeling no sustenance,
hopelessness.
Missing my mother but never showing it,
blatant.
Like when they told me that blood was red but I found out it wasn't
and could I even begin to tell you,
the real you,
what it means to me to be experienced in American war,
graduated with honors in horror,
what it means to understand the complexities of our helplessness
and the pragmatic, willful submission to our lords.
And it allows you to ask me,
why my blood isn't a lighter shade of red,
because it's darkened
with pollution when it visits my horror-filled head.
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