You lock your door, prepare for a revelation, but sit instead with bubbles in your throat and question marks in your ears. This isn't the great insight you had been asking for.
The world outside your door demands answers you cannot mold with your own two hands, the clay runs through your fingers like sand, you are afraid to take the first step because of all the others that demand to follow, this isn't the dream I was promised, America I have given you all and now I'm nothing. You used to believe the path would be found in poetry, but now you seem to have forgotten how to read.
It occurs to me that I am America
I'm not sorry.
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