More rain.
The pavement is dark with wet and I’m inside
Reading by cloudy light.
Eyes straining.
Orson Scott Card makes my head ache
As much as he makes it think.
I am Ender,
Or so I like to think.
I am Valentine too:
Guilty and conniving.
Perhaps I am even Peter,
The dark recesses of my desires
Chiseling my ambitions into evil.
Perhaps if I weren’t so damn lazy,
I would be as endlessly dangerous
As the Wiggins.
Perhaps if I weren’t stretched across
The living room couch;
Full to bursting with M&Ms
And the anticipation for a story
I already know.
I’m oblivious to the world
Until Dad breaks my concentration,
Until I’ve turned the last page
And left the Speaker for the Dead
Travelling across the universe
With his scheming sister.
It’s raining outside
And it’s raining in me,
The same as it always is
When the words have drained themselves
And I’m still as unsatisfyingly unsuccessful as before.
I oughtn’t read in half-light.
I’m too melancholy
To be left alone in the near-dark.
Categories:
unsatisfyingly, books, rain, science fiction,
Form: Free verse