I could do a lot of things
but not here,
this place of horrors,
where the dread looms high,
temptations at every corner,
where doubts had etched into the walls,
tears soaked into the carpet
and hope buried under a sea of shit
Category: Poetry
Getting drunk on a monday
You shouldn’t do it
Yet there are places that are open
and serves you
what does the court say?
How do I explain it
to the jury?
It isn’t my fault
those bastards
want me to fail
your honour
The big guy with the wig
tilted his head
and held me
at contempt
of court
accident
Mind your step
the floor is soaked
with
the good stuff
and shards.
There were legs
and a long dress
red as red can be
close your eyes
He stood from his seat and stared
Stared into an empty room that was dark
He had a better view standing up
The darkness was beutiful
It showed him stuff
colorless pictures
of other worlds
or perhaps the future
he stepped closer and bumped into the coffe table
then the spell was gone
and there was nothing there
There’s a lot of things people should do while being alive.
Have I earned living?
Is living our only strength?
I have a job, I save, I’m good
to people
and I ha–
listen
Life feels like fate
sometimes.
I don’t think there is fate
A lot of it is luck
but there are other things that
we are in control
over.
We know the answers
Listen to the heart
is the common saying
although I don’t think anyone really
know what that means
anymore.
Some are keen listeners
others don’t
How else can I explain
the voices in my head?
delusion
I talk to myself
I think that’s common
but I wonder
how many writers
do interviews
in their head.
I’ve become famous
and I say how it all started
when nothing has begun
my humble origins
I think often about that future
when I’m popular enough
to be interviewed
talking about how I struggled
ultimately victoriouss
geez–
new spool
hello, hello
the ink is dry
bada bum, bidi bada bada bumbi boo!
there, that fixed it
pretty as a picture
Wine
A goddamn headache, that’s all I get
still I drink it
bitterly, cheerfully I gulp it down
It’s dry and turns my head into sand
Drink a glass and have two
the whole bottle
I never get a headache in bars
though
because I paid three times more for that glass
than at home
I drink to not think
to let my mind loose and run around like a goddamn dog
You don’t need a drink if you’re the master
I am not so I got mine on a leash
what to do about my day
I feel bad about not making time for the things I’m supposed to do.
It’s not a lack of time that’s the problem it’s the other thing, human things, that is within my control
Hence I feel bad
I blame my environment but I’m lazy, I know this.
For some reason reading and writing is the easy thing to do when I got nothing else.
What makes my apartment suck up all of my energy?
I think my life is comfortable, too comfortable
Maybe I should quit my day job? That would put fire under my ass.
Why do I have to do it, though? Who cares if I waste my time anyway, is there something lost?
You live to create things, if you can. Everyone create something; a life, a reason to exist, an income, someone to hate, a reason to fight? a reason to love. What’s to say they are good or bad, they are all reasons to live.
What’s my reason other than feel joy? I can make people feel good around me but that’s no reason to exist. My writing is perhaps my reason. Maybe that’s why I don’t write all the time, because it’s just too important.
Nobody created anything worthwhile by being happy, it seems like.
The Horrors of Writing 