i can't write
i can't write
i can't w r i t e
i'm happy and i'm sad and it's got me in this place
where i don't know what i want
because really, i want everything
and really, i want nothing
i can't write
anymore
the words just won't come
and i don't know what i want
i don't know what i expect
i'm happy and i'm sad and i can't write

my heart chokes me every time i see you

haven't written much because
i forgot how to feel.
i shut off my emotions
when i got sick of hurting.
but now i don't know
how to turn them back on.
do i even want to feel?
i still think about you.
you you you you you.

I thought I would try
to write like Bukowski.
But then I thought,
I have no experience
when it comes to
horse races
or women.
So I gave up
and wrote
this ****** poem instead.
They're always ******,
unless you've got enough whiskey
to rid yourself of that
nagging voice,
the one that reminds you of your mother,
the one that always says
it's not good enough.
Oh hell, I guess even I can write
like Bukowski.

4am means nothing
when you're alone
in a cheap motel room.
With the television broken
and the phone line dead,
it's easy to find yourself just
lying there, humming to yourself.
I also like to look at ceilings.
There's really nothing else to do.

sun-soaked and bittersweet;
that's the way the memories are.
and the lust for life i used to have
makes me so nostalgic at times
i feel that i might *****.