You talk of San Francisco, piercings and nights out
while I just listen. Nothing to add. Nothing’s really happened.
I’ve moved into a smaller house.
I do the same thing everyday.
I don’t go out with friends.
I don’t have friends anymore. Just people that used to know me.
I still dream of Los Angeles, of success.
But I’ll never be a best seller if I don’t write the book.
I’ll never be a screenwriter if I don’t read the scenes.
My roommate tells me about her screen adaptation,
not knowing that she’s stolen my dream.
How would she? I never tell her anything.
I can’t bear to look at the Ravens anymore.
All they seem to say is “failure” as they fly further away from me.