Day old Macaroni

What is a shot at freedom?
I say it is Liquor poured in America.

I want to taste America and her freedom wings.
I want to suck her deep in my lungs.

This Independence day is different from the thirsty days of the past.

No woman on my arm.
No true ideals burning in my chest.

I, As a writer have come to the verge in my mood and as a person I have truly begun anew.

It all seems sublime and different.
Everyday normal and strange.
I don’t love this life.
It would be a desperate lie to say I do.

I do find beauty as I gaze upon the new.
As I gaze upon a river, the trees, and the thousand shades of Summer green.

I hear the divergence of my soul screaming for the path I’m destined for.

I am no journalist.
I am no one that a perfectionist would understand.
I drink tonight like nights before,
And like a thousand suns I have forgotten evermore.

I dive into Hemingway and imagine thoughts of his broken days and lost comrades of spring.

They thought their last thoughts while chewing over a dinner consisting of laughter, war, and fingers dug deep into day old macaroni and cheese.

I write with no knowledge of why.
Destiny is a wicked bitch.
She will bust you down from time to time.
She may find me tonight, or possibly on that night I die.
A translator will find my words and to him they may live on.

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