THE LIFE AND TIMES

if writing is a motherfucker
then what’s that make me?
a goddamn crazy fool,
that’s what
the weight of the world on my shoulders
is not something I asked for
nor would I wish it on anyone else,
no matter how much I despised them

I wear glasses because of this stupid obsession
I can’t think straight
my concentration is nil unless I’m behind a keyboard
and I don’t care all that much about the real world,
only the one that exists inside my head

I’m shut off and shut down
with no consideration for anyone but me
everything in life –including the good shit –
is nothing more than a hurdle
between
me and my words

the pressure drips like a leaky kitchen faucet
I’ve taken out the proper tools
but nothing fixes it
not booze or sex or drugs
but sometimes a good book buys me some time
before my mind begins to regain control of my body
I become limp, paralyzed to the demands

I am a shitty human being for a myriad of reasons
and the only way to make myself feel like I’m worth
half a damn
is to keep going
regardless of how much I’d rather be anyone
and anything
other
than a writer