I've been writing poems all evening. They all come of age in my head in the span of a minute. It all seems to easy. Are they any good?
Was Bukowski right? Should I not even try? If I don't give it my all, my undivided attention does it even count?
Terrible movies on a too-expensive big screen TV, sitting on a love seat like everyone's grandmother had. This can't be a place where I can make something real.
Can I make art here? or is it wrong?
Shouldn't I be sitting under a single lightbulb, at a typewriter wearing a collared shirt bought second hand? Shouldn't I cheat on my girlfriends and drink too much and gamble, Shouldn't I owe money in three different provinces to twelve different people?
Shouldn't this be torn from me? Ripped from the darkest reaches of my proverbial soul?
I don't know if I have soul. Or If I'd even want one. What I do know I have is bills to pay tomorrow. And a long walk to the bank. Its half past two in the morning, and i don't have any beer worth drinking. I've got to work on Tuesday, and I don't get enough hours. I have nobody to talk too, and I just fought with my girlfriend. I don't feel terrible, but I don't feel well. My throat hurts from bad cigars and cheap wine.
If I wasn't supposed to try I guess this was the time.
I have no idea how I feel about this. If its gone in the morning, please don't feel surprised.