Desperation has been said to be the fuel for the poet. Words, and in the end, everything that I say will have been said before. Fiction, I need to get back to my fiction, but the world these days doesn’t allow me time to write and just love, I miss love.
Desperation, and I try to do the best that I can. I try to be original. I try to be nice. I try to help and love and hold doors and smile, and down I’ve only failed in the eyes of america, and they have and will once again soon toss me to the streets, and everybody who helped me and loved me, well they soon will be dead, and I’m too nice and caring. I feel the need to help people, and this is laughed at.
Desperation, and I can’t even calm myself down lately, and I’ve lost a bit of weight this summer, and that’s not a good thing, because I was already skinny. I’ve lost love and hair and I just want to be alone. I want people to give me space and not shit. I don’t want hear whispers anymore. I want to go to the bar and feel attractive. Depressed, and I don’t think that’s it.
Thirty one, a man, a grown man, I think. Thirty one and soon the winter will be here. And I made plans to go to Europe, but I don’t really want to go. I want to start a family, make a home, but for some reason I’m not allowed to do that. Love won’t let me stay. But love won’t let me go. She ripped me apart, and she comes over and falls asleep on my chest. I kiss her forehead. She wake up. She leaves. Four days. Three if I’m lucky. Poverty destroyed my american dream, and I’m sure the next time, the next love, will cause me to forget about this love. I don’t want to forget. I can’t forget. I’ve had to forget so much.
Desperation, and I’ve sent out over three hundred resumes, and nothing. I went to college. I feel like an abandoned veteran of a great war, and I’ve written well over ten thousand hours in my life, and I thought that’s when you’re suppose to be getting good, but nobody will tell me if I’m good or not. The kind of good where you can live.
And I wish I had the time to sharpen my teeth, to get fat, to be allowed to stumble once again. Right now, every wrong move that I make is massive, in my eyes. I judge myself. I’m too smart and not skilled enough. I see the soul in the flesh. I don’t hold some great metaphysical flame to art, and I don’t know if I made the right choice in becoming a writer. But I was a kid when I started on this road, innocent; I aint no kid anymore.
Desperation, and people say that I’m obsessed, maybe I am, and I always wanted to go to baseball games and laugh with those I love. I like america. I like the world. I like people, but they refuse to give me a chance at anything. I’m lost, again.
And desperation, so much desperation right now, because I can’t sleep and wake up as me again. I can’t sleep and smoke the same smokes. I can’t be whatever I am. And truth, I will have to be, whatever me I am, and I’m losing something. I hope that I can calm down enough before I forget how easy life really is.
Desperation, and yeah, I’m sun burned chain-smoking and have a full beard again. What the hell is wrong with me? She was right. I must be delusional. great…
Adventures In American Writing 