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Purgatory

“No one wants to think anymore, they just want to feel,”

but oh, I want it all,

Why can’t I have it all?

When did the heart and the mind become so mutually exclusive? My heart feels a message and my mind puts it into words so that your heart can feel it too, isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?

Or is there something wrong with me? Are my wires all tangled up, sending signals to all these parts where they’re not supposed to be?

What ever happened to all the poets, the dreamers, the lovers, the thinkers? What happened to the people who were just like me? Oh, sometimes I fear I was created much too late, and all the poets/dreamers/lovers/thinkers are buried in this state

of mind of mine.

Because Shakespeare is long gone, I fear, my questions left to squander, and Aquinas would turn in his grave if he knew how far from God I’ve wandered.

Wilde lives on in my heart, thought he could barely save himself, and Nabokov had a thousand Lolitas sitting high upon his shelf.

But you know Freud can’t save me, I must be a defective human being! Call Descartes, tell him I think too much to exist amid this scene.

And the times, they are a-changin’ right before my very eyes, I have to sing myself to sleep at night with Nietzsche’s lullabies.

Oh, someone get me out of here, I’ve got too much to give; pack me in a box and send me back in time, for now is not my place or time to live.

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