What I would really like to say

is that I enjoy beer in the afternoon

while I write and stare out over the

Main Streets of America

in different cities

and watch

how everyone scurries all the same

in every direction, every state;

a sleepless battle to obtain things

to live a good life

to try to find meaning and excel in the success

of solving all of life’s quizicalness;

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i am alone

lately, that is too rare an occurrence

one i cherish

both for its existence

and for its briefness

void of a winter for quite some time

there is hope every time i glance out a window

hoping to see snow

but seeing only the grayness of the urban backdrop

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It all ends up as shit;

that discolored horror created within all of us

ends up being the perfect metaphor

of the lives we are born in and die from

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I have already come to the point

where I wonder

if any of this has any purpose

what the fuck really does it matter

even when I am correct or find an answer…

for what purpose is my righteousness

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You and I, we are not so different

I am exhausted trying to defend myself

trying to deflect all of your judgments

makes me angry, defensive, lonely

trying so hard to open up, be honest, be vulnerable

only to be told how perfect you are

and how fucked up I am

But, you and I

we are not so different

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Poetry is allowed to be a journal

allowed to be written by the pound…

Lawrence was wrong

then right…

so is life

I suppose

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I am missing something

Everyone tells me to make money

to take care of myself for the future

Inside

there is a pull to help

to donate this life to a cause

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