so ****** in the face of it at the end of it, your perception on the nose of it this feeling in my nose this tingling wall this numby crunchy face on my face that blocks out the light and the truth and the life .... that's how it feels .... sorta how crazy does that read? i'll bet it reads ugly. i'll bet it reads sick. it should because its a description of drugs crazy people, ie. people like me take to try to feel less crazy they make your ******* face feel like it jumped rebellious, eyes, ears, nose, throat, turned traitor.
it seems there can come a certain special kind of time in a man's life, when he can feel weird and lonely enough to type a few words and call it poem. ******* Bukowski. this is his legacy. the possibility to do what I'm doing right now. without that disgusting, self-centered fool I never would have thought to try and write these weird feelings I'm feeling.
a little attention, that's what strokes this need. a few incidental internet readers, to read this strangely pointless pontification on the bits of sadness that are me.
i wish i could find an open field and lay back comfortable in the crisp cold air and feel the stars shoot through me my heart pounding in the dirt and waiting for *** or sun or wolves or rain or anything else you might call "love."
i wish for more death or more life I can't stay here.