Sitting here and it feels like
my brain is scrambling to
find something, or do something
I need.
But here I am,
in bed at 1 a.m on a Saturday;
writing my junk poetry,
smoking what was left of a cigarette
I found in the ash tray.
I had a glass of wine earlier,
which I enjoyed with the spaghetti
I made. (My best so far)
I watched two movies I rented,
and smoked some ****,
and now I am here.
I want to read Bukowski,
but my eyes feel more like closing.
I guess I'll let sleep win this round.