American literature pours over me like Ripple, in a curvaceous brown bottle
it makes me nauseous and its not worth listening to.
Authors penned their works in the golden hours of a breakdown,
in most cases, caressed by Angel's Dust and Jack's.
Maybe if I knew a backstory without listless struggle
I would be tempted to peer into their heads and wonder why.
I ripped up my copy of the Crucible, the red aura around the print
burned through my retina.
I am blind to the Classics, and
I don't regret it.