Diary of an American

I clean my face at night

my mother calls it taking off the day.

I can clean my face, but I have seen too much that cannot be washed away

I wonder what it is all for, the fear, the smell of dread, the infighting and

I wonder if things will be different in the morning.

I have seen too many mornings and I am still young

I weary of lives wasted of time wasted, of cutting off and fading away

I love nights the stillness.

I do not have to deal with trivialities and human nature. A single candle burns

and flickers.