I have homework,
lots of homework,
math and history
and research on Cuba
to be memorized by
Friday.
Yet here I am,
on the internet,
scrawling words into
the black leather binder
that I carry around.
And I keep clicking
through the verse on
the screen
in the vain hope
that it can tell me
why.
Why do I keep Facebook
open in another tab,
watching for a pair
to be online simultaneously?
Why do I demand
news from the happy ones
but cringe at every word?
And why are
my pens choosing
now to run
out of ink,
now,
when I most desperately
need to ask the
paper:
Why can't I love?