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poetry after midnight

April 22, 2012

In March I read
I read to take me away from my life
I read anything that reaches out and says,
‘I have a story, let me tell it to you.’
I am easily seduced by stories.

I read and I try not to think about the future
Which is impossible
So I suppose I’m not even really trying
Only pretending.
I think about the future every day,
And in the end, all I have is the thought
‘I don’t know what to do.’
Which is in itself, a lie.

I know what I want
I do not know how to push it further
To make it become reality.

I read and at the back of my head, I think,
‘If I spent as much time writing as I do reading
I would have a book finished by now.’

I read on.
Proving the lie,
Other people’s stories are the only reality, I think.
Another lie.
I read on.


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