Searing tears,
Rubbing-sore hands,
Pounding drum headache,
Red eyes,
Lips and cheeks inflamed.
The embers burn,
Laying forgotten amongst
Dull gray ashes.
Shimmering smoke
Leaches away tenderness,
And slowly,
Oh so slowly,
Steal my soul as it rises.

Day by Day the phone calls come,
Day by Day the knocks come on my door,
The Hounds have been released,
Baying for blood,
Baying for the liquid green blood they call theres,
Baying for my hard work,
Baying for the liquid green that i harvested,
That i Worked for,
The Pencil pushing hounds have been released.

Day by day the hounding comes.

Maybe it's the blood
Maybe it's the scar
Maybe it's the gap
Or the bar

That led me back
To this place of insanity
I am a wrenched soul
Among humanity

For I know what I do
And how it hurts others
But I am a selfish *******
So I keep on until dusk it smothers

It sears red
It sears
Across my chest, bursting through
Charging out into shaky hands
Sharp voice and dark eyes
Deadly, I hope they are, deadly

That people are so cruel
Inhumane
It's beyond my comprehension
That sick pleasure
Sadists.

What's it to you
*******
Were you abused in kitten-hood?
Did it teach you to pounce?
You sharpened your claws
But your teeth are broken

And I am just about ready to snap that little neck

The ******* of Eden
Licking Chernobyl ****
Humming that post atomic hit ™

The sad part is that most of us, writers,
are almost ashamed to say it out loud.
We do it like a bad habit we can't escape.
****** junkies with the leash around our necks.
Treat it like a disfigurement; our
malignant entries spread like cancer from
under our pathetic, hypocritical hands.
We're sad.
Depressed.
"Heart broken".
Angst ridden.
Jaded.
Coping.
Coping.
Learning to cope,
but often failing.
Stepping on each other;
a sea of cadavers with
no bottom, surface, or center.
Full of brilliance/ brighter than the sun.
Collectively, we are a diamond made from ****.
A uselessly expensive commercial good,
nonetheless.
The next Bukowski will be a child molester,
or a sociopathic spree killer. Too bad
no one wants to be the great writer of course.
What greater shame could there be?
What bigger embarrassment could exist?
What insult and tragedy is more than being
a writer?