where were the living at
and how were they feeling?
what were they doing and
what were they thinking about
while I was spending those
dreadful days
in tiny rooms
alone,
at the foot of the bed,
with a bottle of whiskey
and my Converse shoes
tucked in the corner,
when the vines of nostalgia
were constricting my thoughts
and I was memorializing my childhood
like an ashtray,
putting out cigarette butts
on the bad memories
too often remembered?

I felt, as if, my purpose in life
was as important
as the mendacity
from the liars tongue.
misguided down a
directionless path,
left astray and forgotten about
like a drifter
playing the part of the rejected
and disassociated

shattering windows of opportunities by
burning through time and space and
jobs and women and ***** and drugs
and brain cells and miracles and
ideas and tenderness and
humanitarianism and morality
and conversations...
lots and lots of conversations,
wearing down my body, listlessly
like matchsticks to flame,

but auspiciously,
I found the lighter in writing,
sparking a new beginning and
regaining myself as I took the
wheel back from driving recklessly
through an impetuous
crash course of life

there’s no reason to tiptoe
around light sleepers and
walk on eggshells or
unbalanced tightropes
without the use of legs
in front of searing eyes
when it comes to writing,

writing is love being hustled
down the dead insides of
the dispassionate,

the unhappier the childhood
I’ve experienced
the funnier the comic book
I’ve illustrated

the more personal tragedy,
the better the writing

our minds at war
and writing is the peace

like watching
the robin and
the cardinal
fighting over
the worm,
as they slowly
pull it apart