I think the problem
is I try to be profound

I yearn to pour my heart out
but with added weight
at the price of honesty

I try to take the rain
beating on the window
and make it ambience
instead of nature

The cold from the wind
a tortured soul
rather than the price
payed by a fool
who wouldn't shut the window

Some are made to be our sages

Fitzgerald and his green light
Lee and her Mockingbird
Morrison and Solomon

but what of Hemingway?
What of course and real?
What of Burroughs naked at lunch?
Honesty
but also intrigue, experience.

For a girl in her bed room
trying to be incredible
there is only the shadow of a hand on paper