They all hit the streets.
I didn’t care.
I stood on the stoop,
sipping beer,
dreaming dreams
of
a royalty check
or
a published book.
Fuck
balling up at the bars
and
fuck
all the bartenders
and
all the overly primped
little bitches
that occupy them.
Fuck
‘em all.
I’ve got
my books
and
my records
and
my beer
and
what else do I need?
I gave up mostly
on women.
Too much pain,
too much sorrow,
too much trouble.
I
don’t need the bars.
I
don’t need the hassles.
I
don’t need to need.
If I
could turn this brain off
or
destroy
all the thoughts
in the back of my skull
I
could finally forget.
I
could finally move on.
I’m
not even on
my
side these days.
I
claw at myself
in
my
sleep.
I
stick honest-to-god-knives
in
my
stomach
and
I
drink
down more beer
and wine
than I ever thought possible.
I
relish
in physical pain
and enjoy DEEPLY
the scars that now wrack
my beer-buzzed body.
I’m killing
brain cells in high hopes of shutting the motherfucker down
all-to-fucking-gether.
I want fucking out.
Out of this fucking skin
and
out of this fucking head
and
out of this fucking city and even yes,
out of this fucking world.