Internal Recurrence

This may possible be one of the most perfect things I’ve ever read.

No Talent For Certainty

Oh, to be a failure now that Spring is here again
To shine your feeble light until it dies
To bring your composition to a poor climax, and then
To lift pathetic voice up to the skies

Oh, to be a loser as the fields all turn to green
To realize that you’re nobody’s friend
To struggle just to have a thought, or say just what you mean
To get no satisfaction, in the end

Oh, to be in dudgeon as the searing Summer waits
To feel your boiling anger as it flares
To speak your truth to empty air and shake fists at the Fates
To act as if you think somebody cares

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Lay it on me.

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