fiction.

it's late and I'm tired,
I can practically feel my brain rotting
as the tv plays and plays
yelling at me about credit and taxes
and candidates I care nothing about.

my eyes are dry and fluttering
but the words won't seem to flow
just a few more paragraphs to go
but they just.won't.come.
damn you.

who cares about mark twain?
about a man I'll never know
or a child that never existed?
a runaway slave who never felt the pain
of shackles or discrimination?

fiction, it's all fiction
and the irony, dialect and diction
mean nothing to me or anyone else.
I want to read about me...
about me in another life.

a girl who means something to me,
a boy I can fall in love with,
or a contemporary, likable and forward,
to throw support behind...
I want to change the world.

I write and I write,
but at night I can't sleep.
I should be working toward change,
peace, love, and education...
instead I'm learning irony, dialect, and diction...
in a work of fiction.