The Trouble with Nonfiction

blank pieces of paper
beg for something,
and then the mind goes.
war turns to love,
before I can even stomach it. 

mankind has made up shit
for so long and now I find
myself being lulled into that same
decade shit.

bad things write themselves good,
and good things burn.

it's like living near a river city,
and pretending it has never flooded,
when you and everyone else knows
that it flooded like thirty years ago.

blank pieces of paper
beg for ink and history,
and the edges ask for spilled cocktails,
because of things like love and life. 

exclusions apply,
but there is nothing better to do
than rewrite and re-remember
when hearts were whole 
and folk were alive,
years are just lines, indeed.