I write a lot of poetry
most of it is awful
Compulsive need to keep at it
Writing often feels like
I am vomiting my guts out
Purging demons, afraid that
If I don’t let it all out
it will consume me
I do my best
to not share
the worst stuff
or if there is
too much anger
and hatred
In case someone
reads this shit
and gets the wrong idea
Is it even poetry?
Am I even an artist?
who knows and besides
What the hell do those words even mean
I’m just some dumb ape
who breathes and drinks coca cola
writes words on pages
plays his instruments
Goes for walks
tries to somehow stay alive
And avoid things I despise
Fuck I wish I was this and that
but I would never give up
being me because I’m the best at it
and nobody can do what I do, not like this
all the struggle and failure
I am the greatest failure ever
I am the Mohammad Ali of failure
I love how I suck at so many things
So fuck you for not reading this
Fuck you in my head for doubting me
You are nothing to me
No you are everything
I need you
I need your doubts and fears
You in my head
Who fucks with all my shit
You don’t know anything
All you do is waste my time
With your shitty poetry
You are a wannabe artist
Yeah but it’s all I ever
wanted to be so that means
It’s also the most real thing
For me
For this
It’s all I ever wanted
To wander into the deep heart
Of emptiness
Stay there, for awhile
Hello emptiness
A thought comes
Like a wave
I wave to it
bye bye thought
the thought walks away sad
And then I breathe
And blink
I turn my head
And a squirrel
is scradoodling up a tree
Then I get an idea
Scratch some random itch
That’s enough it says
Time to let the drug of existence
take me again into it’s gay bosom
As I write these final words
I wonder if this will end up
in the maybe pile
or if it will
be the one
to make it rain
so I could buy
gifts.
