Cutting Room Floor

Cutting Room Floor

Believe that with breathing
some kind of wretched crashes the
inside of the cell. Knocking over

this ceramic red light, throbbing
violently on the shining black floor.
Tapes revolve and litter, mountains of
celluloid to satisfy this famine of tastes,
of lack for lighted visions.

Some kind of censorship paces these
traces of confessions. Unconsumed, tattering
to be the whole of a discarded teenage fantasy.

Sometimes, watching you slave away all
your days over the cutting room floor, I
desire to know why I carve sympathica into
the stills and photography of salvation
for an incomprehensible empathica.


LOve, Sel.

Does anyone have any idea how I could make the last stanza better?

LOve, Sel.