I pound my rusty philosophy into the counselor’s head

like a bent nail, and smile.

He can’t believe

I said that.

“You’re going to die.

I’m going to die.

Do you still want to listen to kids?”

Sleepless nights make me honest

and when this happens, I make him suicidal

because he stops and thinks

about his pointless life.

I’ve been having this reoccurring conversation with my mother…

“I need to do something great!” I shouted.

“I need to be a golfer

a music composer

a writer

I haven’t accomplished anything yet!”

“You’re too hard on yourself,” she said. “Live in a beautiful place with nice people—that might be the secret to happiness.”

“I don’t want to be happy! I want meaning!”

I talked to my friend

who is trying to escape his controlling girlfriend

and

each time he tries to break up with her

she gets closer to his heart,

and sharpens her knives.

“She’s a trap,” I warned.

“But she’s beautiful.”

Reality is as raw as a human heart

that might get eaten.

Distractions present themselves

like beautiful virgins in white satin sheets

and I remain calm and celibate

with creative juices

leaking onto the page

while I edit

with my human pen.