and what’s that
supposed to mean?
Half way to retirement?
The tail end of fatherhood?
People 10 years
Younger than me
say that I’m an old fart?
And people
10 years older than me
Look at me
Like a I’m a kid?
Nothing changes
I’ll die and
I’m step closer to that
Is that such a sad thing?
That guy,
he picked my brain.
and he’s dead.
I want to mirror him
the real deal.
He’s funny
and doesn’t give a crap.
He taught me that
poetry
isn’t just about flowers
That deep things
can be said through
harsh words.
Well, enough that
I’m not here to suck
the man’s
dick
I really really despise
my job
But the guy can’t live without me
and he’s only getting worse.
Once I could write a lot at work
because he was tired and quiet
but now he’s hollering like a monkey
I can hardly stand it.
His illness have suddenly produced lungs!
But I can’t complain
it’s literally impossible.
Because I don’t work at a factory,
I don’t work at an office
I don’t have a manager breathing down my neck
I got nothing of that
But he chokes on everything he eats
I couldn’t care less
I’ve worked there for too long
Death comes the psycho
often in small ways
Most of us die slowly
Some do whatever they can to stay alive.
They burn
One can only guess what’s on their mind.
The bones are the first that become brittle
but regardless they burn
if hot enough
and they don’t stop burning
not even in the ground.
They never lived the present
and they remembered the past through rose tinted glasses
and always thought about the future.
That’s no way to live.
Day by day,
Minute by minute,
life goes on.
until it doesn’t
and then–
Indulge in the things that destroy you…
Why the hell not?
Does that make sense?
It doesn’t matter
I don’t want to make sense
that’s the point
I want to feel…
…the necessary things
that makes me type
not that fake shit that tries to strangle
my fingers
Sometimes I think I have it
but I lose it
when I try.
I had it!
but I squeezed too hard
and now the butterfly is a
pulp in my palm
thirtyfive years…
I don’t feel old and I have plenty of time
to make sense of this nonsense
Nothing is more awkward than a
writer that can’t write
good.
I wasn’t a good person
I didn’t know what the hell
I was awkward
and selfish
I didn’t bother with the rules
Though they fascinated me.
I stepped over most
Walked around
some
Bent a few
Those were good times.
It’s sometimes beautiful, at least
But mostly it’s
disturbing
I mean, what the hell were they thinking?
What do they want?
What do they get out of it?
Money?
maybe
Fame?
surely
Girls?
surly not
Men?
maybe
Everyone has those things
and in spades!
There’s no limit to them
So what’s the point?
They live as if nothing matters
which is true
nobody understands
except I
Am I the only one with feelings?
Why does the strut of a beautiful woman
make the earth shake
when the mountains are so far away?
and the sunset… all that crap
It must mean something
to someone
Who decided that
anyway?
Driving is its own kind of magic, the kind of magic that you don’t find easy anymore; it’s solitude, and the complete absence of everything. You have no choice but to be absent when you drive, and as long as you know where you’re going, and are familiar with the road (and the car) driving couldn’t be easier.
I like thinking. I don’t do that nearly as much anymore. I suppose that’s why I love traveling and I suppose I also like the feeling that I’m going somewhere – doing something. It’s tangible and it’s easy to quantify, just count the steps.
Driving gives you a respite from yourself and all the must-does. The nag in your head stays quiet for a while. Sometimes you ponder the past, other times the future (but not nearly as often). Sometimes you think up stories or just watching the trees and the car swear a bit to the left if the trees is on the left and on the right if the trees are on the right. You’d never hit a car though, although you think about. Nothing would be easier. Then you consider the consequences, the aftermath. Often you survive the crash and then stuff happens in your head and you’re gone. The magic happens.
The radio is on, for the most part, and strangers sing and laugh in your ear. Sometimes you sing along. I sound good as long as I don’t turn down the volume. The raspy sound of my voice, the tone deafness. I was just on kiddy wheels all along, borrowing their power.
I wonder what happen when we have self-driving cars… I swear humanity will go to hell then. The last sanctuary bulldozed by progress. When will we regress?
I wonder if it was the same way when people got cellphones. It used to be that one could escape on a bus or traveling on a train. Of course, they always had the option to read or play on the gameboy. I don’t think it was the same.
Writing and driving is kinda similar, in a way. They are both magic; you get lost in what you do. Though, it’s more peaceful driving, I think. An activity that is destroying the earth. Though, death is nature too, I suppose.
An old decrepit looking thing
Half collapsed even a few years ago
Now fallen apart
it made me think about time
And that everything falls apart
or get burned down
eventually.
even beloved things
such as the Notre Dame
For a long time I wanted to draw it,
study the rotten beams and the
crumbled
pieces that barely held together
I never did
Maybe I did once
But I’ve forgotten
and now the barn is gone.
Time pass differently
for
different people
randomly
she messaged me
Because I have quite the catchy name
you see.
and we talked
I felt bold
Because I felt her desire,
I saw it on her face
and told her she was a slut.
My heart pounded and she didn’t deny it
she sent pictures
Not a lot of them
She still had some
self respect.
Then one day she wanted to meet
but I was too afraid
I’d put on airs that wasn’t me
I was delightful to her and
I was impressed that she wanted to meet.
It was a thrilling talking her, at first
I could say things
I never would’ve
but still we never met
came up with excuses
I think she chickened out too
at least once.
but she keeps inviting me
I’ll meet her now
now that I understand more how I feel
the consequences of what I say
The Horrors of Writing 