A writer lives two lives
One on earth
And the other on pages

when asked the question
"why?"
I reply
by shrugging my shoulders
why?
I don't know,
maybe I am depressed
or maybe I am just
sad,
maybe I need another cigarette,
maybe I need to pour myself
another drink
or maybe I need a half-naked
pretty young girl to **** whatever
has clawed it's way into my skin
out and into the sweaty,
dark room I sit in,
so it can evaporate,
rid itself from my being;
no matter how much
I smoke,
drink,
****,
the loneliness still carves it's
entire existence into my bones
like lover's names in trees,
it leaves blood stains
and leaves me longing
for so much
more

Putting your faith in me is like tryingto fly a paper plane.

You know how high you want it to go,
But it always comes down

I know I should stop,
I have told myself
a thousand
*******
times
but my mind won't listen
when it is restless and
needs comforting,
I am lighting
cigarette
after cigarette,
drinking *****,
whiskey, gin,
anything hard
to really put an end
to the voices in my head;
but they keep coming back
they're not backing down,
I'm being eaten
from the inside out

the only things I remember about
New York City
in the summer
are the fire escapes
and how the people go
out on the fire escapes
in the evening
when the sun is setting
on the other side
of the buildings
and some stretch out
and sleep there
while others sit quietly
where it's cool.

and on many
of the window sills
sit pots of geraniums or
planters filled with red
geraniums
and the half-dressed people
rest there
on the fire escapes
and there are
red geraniums
everywhere.

this is really
something to see rather
than to talk about.

it's like a great colorful
and surprising painting
not hanging anywhere
else.

I could stay drunk for days,
I love the way I can't feel
my legs
or my head
and I can't see
what's in front of me;
I love how I can punch anything
and everything
and not feel it,
and I absolutely love
stumbling home
with ****** knuckles
and laughing at my own
stupidity;
I see inside of myself
when I'm drinking,
I see it all;
all the anger
and the pain,
we don't talk,
just look,
and that is enough,
to know that when I
inform people that there
is so much more to me
than what they see,
and they tell me I'm being
silly,
I know,
I know,
that you exist

WHEN MY BONES BREAK
FROM THIS LIFE I'VE BEEN LIVING,
WILL YOU BE THERE
TO PICK UP THE FRAGMENTS
OF MY ONCE-LOVING STABILITY?