I have no idea what to write about.

The problem is you’re still telling yourself you’re not a poet. You’re still convinced you have nothing worthwhile to say. So, you rant to the people in your family, to the people you pretend are your friends—it’s safer—but you feel lonely—because they don’t get it—because they don’t want to get it, because they sense what you know to be true: understanding this world is painful. Seeing the world for what it is—and by the world, I mean, my world: America—seeing America without a veil of patriotic blindness is a living nightmare. The Horror. The Horror. Realizing that no one is going to save you, that you are on your own—if you want something fixed, fix it yourself, my war torn carpenter father used to tell me. He just knew things about people, the things I presume you learn when you kill someone who means to kill you—when you’ve seen murderous rage in the eyes of another person—when you have become murderous to preserve your ego by snuffing out another—that leaves invisible marks inside you—as long as there are people on this planet— dad used to shake his head at my politics— as long as there are people on this Earth, they’ll be trying to kill each other—even if they have to use sticks. Sometimes, I almost believe that. But that’s only part of my problem.

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Sang Lee is Dead: memoirs in fragments
By Charles Bivona

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