RSSstill grappling with my own madness
Aug 25
– and now I have created my own waste land—no water anywhere and my pallet is sand—I choke in the night on my own dust—this living makes me ache and my muscles spasm at the effort of standing—so frail for a large man—broad chest and shoulders that carry the weight of dreams—the world has long since spit me out for lack of taste and I wonder if I am merely a corpse—a victim of disease—a dead man too stubborn to fall—the cremated remains too insistent to scatter in the wind—to hit the ocean—to return to the source of my becoming—lord I am a child…thirty-one years and I have learned nothing—collected a reading list and traveled a bit—for I am always running away and towards—the nonsense of it all – if this is the poet that I am then why bother with words—why even muster syllables—I am not good enough for language—instead I will curl up like a mindless mollusk and communicate through odors or simplistic body spasms—or a slug that has nothing to say and just exists to be slimy—eat and fuck and die all in one brief flicker of life—oh so pointless—I am still depressed –
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