11-18-89

                                                                                      11-18-89
I ask myself, “when will she
knock at my door.” I want her face,
her mind, all that is hers. And I
want her to give it to me. Wisdom
has no shape or form. I am sick of
philosophy and religion. I have vexed
both and they leave me alone.
I’ve given life all that I have.
My hands feel the pain everyday. I
carry my cross daily with the pain
that is not insignificant but sincere.
I write to satisfy my lust for meaning
and worth. I am worthless without
meaning. Wisdom and her followers hold
all meaning.

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