a place of horrors

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


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



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


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.

sometimes it’s just too damn easy

I feel like I’m wasting away in this apartment.

It’s safe,

it’s cheap, and it’s reasonably clean.

It’s a short distance to the bar and close to my family.

The only fault with it

is that I’m living

in it.

My TV is there,

my computer is there

and sometimes my brain is.

I don’t think I can be happy anywhere.

It’s the wanderlust

and the road beckons.

I have it too good, it’s pleasant and easy.

My mind is hijacked

by other things,

that’s the first problem.

Maybe that’s what I should fix first.

Get rid of it.

The distractions

But as any addict,

they stay,

because it’s scary without them.

I never used to be scared

of being alone with myself,

but then again,

I never worried about the future


I ride back home

I took the train back

I always enjoy reading

on the quiet side of the train

you know,

the side that’s supposed to be quiet?

I took my shoes off and put my feet up

When it was my turn to get off

my shoes were gone

Someone took them

The same way I took the train

Hope my shoes made them happier

than the train ride did