It is a terrible despair,
Knowing you'll never be able
To live off your passion.
But American society
Isn't build to support career poets,
And I fell back in love with dance
Too late.
Don't get me wrong,
I do love history.
I do love what I've chosen for myself.
But what is the point
Of screaming into paper
If no one will hear me?
What is the point
Of learning more movements
If I will never use it
Except sad, lonely nights alone in my kitchen?
When the tears leave,
All there that is left
Is cold, quiet, crippling despair
Inking itself
Into every corner of my life.
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