Confessions of a Broken American

It is the kind of late summer night that feels overly ripe for confessions. It is the kind of night that lingers and churns, as the bitter words balk and hesitate on the tip of a dry tongue.  Words that yearn to be screamed out from the very rooftop of a small blue house cornered nakedly in the broken heart of a City of Wayne.  Words aching for the altruistic freedoms promised by honest artistic exclamation.  Words that instead inexplicably cling tenaciously to the last gasp of decent decorum and the inherently flawed rules of a supposedly polite society that was anything but polite to me, in all the years spent in this shitty little flyover town so full of fucked up perspectives and priorities and …

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