There are times when the English language fails me.
Times in between flicks of the lighter
and gulps of cheap booze
in which a brief memory
consumes me
and brings me
into the moment I made a promise
to never let my hobbies
become habits.
Particularly those that took me
away from what I
was and propelled me
into a place where I
could be painfully numb.
Remembering when I
used to write with a fervor
that was inspired solely by feeling
and a lust to remain a pure and unadulterated man,
determined to keep his art a reflection of self.
There is no word in the English language I
can use to describe my disappointment after those times.