Writing is the last good place where a person can whine. Not just bitch and moan, but let the demons out of the rib cage to feed on syllables and similes. Devils dining on pen and paper.
When you’re god knows how fucking long in a deep drinking binge and a creativity drought, it’s easy to sit around and complain in your poems. It’s harder to write anything of substance.
Collected below is my piss poor “pity me” poetry that is the result of one too many whiskey shots and a diet of Hunter S. Thompson novels.
I scribble down because it’s foreign to me
Like a language I once knew but abandoned
I slap the keys on my Mac like a typewriter
To feel like Bukowski or Kerouac
But it’s all bullshit
I worry more about a perfectly manicured Facebook photo to go along with my rambling.
A fucking caption to steal your attention away from your high school track star’s second baby or what Bruce Jenner is doing to his wrinkled cock.
I’m a fraud.
Anyone who calls themselves an artist is a fraud.
Because art has done nothing to society in years.
So I drink until the word get blurry.
Drink until the neon sign shakes.
Drink until the bars walls become my toilet.
Drink until the bouncer’s hands grip my neck.
“Fuck you, man!” I reply.
It’s about the only honest thing I’ve said in a while.
They’ll think I’m crazy if I tell them about the voices
telling me to “piss off” in a shoddy British accent
They’ll think I’m insane when I talk about the logistics of
swallowing the cold barrel of a 12 gauge shotgun
They’ll think I have lost it when I explain the merits
of mercy killing, infanticide, public execution and torture
They’ll wire tap my phones when I debate the ideals
of gender equality, taxes and how 9/11 was an inside job
They’ll smell my disease when I beg and plead for
attention, pity, humanity, what’s “real”
What is real?
They’d put me away for asking that
I hate myself and I want to die
I was always a pussy but I always wanted to kill myself.
I couldn’t slit my wrists like the ‘popular kids’. I was always afraid I’d actually do it and I wouldn’t be around for anyone to feel bad for me.
I started smoking cigarettes young because I heard they’d kill you eventually. I inherited the bottle from my dad because I heard that killed the pain.
As I got older, I realized the tar in my lungs would take a few years to form into tumors, so I tried heroine because I had a few friends wind up in caskets pretty fast.
As the butane from my BIC turned to daydreams on the foil, I forgot just why I was killing myself. I didn’t remember the bills on my table or the disappointment in my mother’s voice until after I was sober.
Then it was too late to die.