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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i cannot understand why no one is doing anything

we all know things are wrong

that we are unhealthy

whether in our greed

or our complacency

or our ignorance

or our pride

or our body

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I could be great

great writer

great father

great lover

great humanitarian

great for myself

great for the sake of

I could

I know I could

if only I could just…

if only I could…

if only…

af

(written on computer)