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.