I cage myself with ladders of words, phrases, syllables;
all meant to somehow lead me out
of a pit of fluorescent lights and into a bank of real sun.
All meant to make my life whole and complete
like a vowel on the edge of rounded lips.
Overflowing founts of wisdom fill my shelves,
bathroom counters and the passenger seats of cars.
If I keep reading, I should find answers, inspiration.
But when does inspiration fade into mere imitation?
How long can I cover myself in slips of paper, drips of ink,
tracing letters like paths through mazes, life?
Emerson says to put down the book and experience
but you still have to read that in a book.
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