I sit here
Nobody wants to hear me
I don’t even want to hear myself
Nobody understands me
I think that’s the greatest truth
Nobody cares to understand me.
Perhaps, that’s what a writer is…
someone trying to be understood
in the simplest terms
and most writers use metaphors—impossible language—they are the fakers of their art.
If I were to write a simple sentence
maybe they would know?
I think about drinking
Not because it’s something productive to do
but because, it would be a method for giving up
People, don’t know the source of their drinking
the average drunk will tell you, “They are happy.”
Maybe, their meaning in life is gotten
the next bottle.
I listen to most people
and I think about drinking.
simplify our lives—they narrow, who we are, until we are totally selfish.
Our worries become less and less
as we become less and less
and it doesn’t matter, if we are sitting on a beach
looking at the waves, waiting for Armageddon.
I feel like I’m waiting
in a sea of unhappy people.
As I persist, in life
I suffer more, like a runner
at mile 22.
If we have expectations
we gradually meet each new moment, with disappointment.
Life doesn’t become easier.
If we are dreamers, we have to wake-up
over and over again.
As we become perfected, we shed our scales
and see the world, for what it really is.
To keep looking, and not to dull the pain
is to experience what life is.
To abandon prejudice
is to see our humanity in others.
The dream, is an addiction—something perfect and something simple to live for.
True life can never measure up to it
and I find myself living with lies that I don’t have answers for.
If I tell myself, I want a perfect woman
it is easy to be rejected by that bitch
or to stop seeing that good girl.
I have enough
I have things in my life that I might lose
but there is nothing I can’t live without—
even my own life—losing it, is small
compared to my big dreams
that I lose, over and over again.
Dreams, I need. I can’t live without them.
I am willing to die for them, but harder still—is the personal truth I carry with me
I am willing to live
for my dreams,
and living is hard.
Each year, I find myself adjusting what I do
as life doesn’t work out, the way I want it to
I slave for my existence
that teaches me
There are many flowers being sold on Mother’s Day
and most of them, are ugly
and that’s not what a flower is supposed to be.
It would be better, not to give, an ugly flower to my mother
because the absence of ugliness, is better than an ugly gift.
It’s the thought that counts, right?
She might smile and say “thank you”
but it’s the same smile a girl gives, when she wants to be polite.
Women won’t admit they do this
and it’s only when the guy shakes her shoulders and screams, “Why?”
that she pulls out her pepper spray and screams “Rape!”
How many guys are crazy?
That’s how the store sells their ugly flowers—
People like me, spend all of their money
just to buy something beautiful
that she might like.
That’s how I feel about my life—
they’re doing well.
It’s an addiction.
I want to know where I stand.
It hurts to know where I stand.
I’m totally sober.