I never really put in enough thought,
or spent any time
finding the perfect word
or the ideal pace.
Enough people have said
that I am a great writer,
only occasionally missing the point.
Right now, as my head rests heavy
without rest,
I don't feel like that great writer,
who amazed the bars
and spoke of sincerity
combined with profanity.
I don't feel as if the pen
belongs in my left hand
or the stacks of notebooks
are worth anything more
than an hour of heat
outside in the cold.
I think hard and heavy
about my surroundings;
how the people waste away
never earning enough money
to live,
but earning just enough
so as not to quit.
Everyone has a hand
around another's throat.
I have written
with myself in mind
and with myself
as the topic
of my writing.
This is no different
to slamming a fist
in the face of the innocent
due to impulse,
or taking a country to war
for personal wealth.
With only the 'Denial of Death'
sitting open at the end of the preface
and a sunken brow
I think about packing it in:
Until I live more
I have nothing left to write.
'I may be gone for a short while,'
and once again I turn the tables
to myself.
Writing as if I capture importance,
when in reality,
I merely offer the few readers
myself, captured
by myself.
Life seems to be phases
upon phases upon
phases.
From music to prose,
to alcohol, to poetry,
to now,
where the cold air outside
weaves its way
around us
and we grow sullen;
full of questions
that can't be answered
until we forget them.
This is no time to attack
the poets or the obese
child sat among her obese family
with a bucket of chicken each
and two hours of prime time television.
A brief realisation it may be,
but right now it seems
that I have done no more than them:
I am not fighting against poisons,
I merely pen my opinion
as if it is worthy of your consideration.
And so, until I have gained something new
or lost something I didn't think I could be
without,
I must rest my pen
next to a pile of books
that I plan to read
in order to gain something
whilst I lose something
I didn't think I could be
without.
For a while,
perhaps until I become
just like my father is now
I have lost it.