STUCK
A poem I wrote last January. Then forgot about until I found it today.
STUCK
I can't write this late.
It's getting blurry...
The alcohol?
No, maybe I need a goodnight's rest.
I get all my good ideas now,
At 4:56 AM my eyelids get heavy,
But my brain stirs,
Its more active then its been all day.
I can still taste the sting of the scotch,
I imagine the smoky amber on my tongue,
I want to vomit,
I can't.
I'm not even drunk,
I haven't been,
Haven't had a drink in over a decade,
Wait was that contradictory?
What is this?
Am I writing about an alcoholic?
Am I writing about me?
Am I writing just to write?
Sometimes the most disturbing things,
Are a writer's delights,
It's in them we can find human moments,
The honest to god truth of the writer and his characters.
Scenes like a massacre,
A cheating husband,
A patient in hospice,
The scenes of so much inspiration.
A skull getting cracked,
A scene of horror,
Has more adjectives,
Then a love scene.
Is this all pointless?
I'm just writing into the void...
Typing into a laptop...
It's 5 O'clock in the fucking morning.
What is the purpose?
To exercise my brain,
Is this like- writer's Viagra?
NO
If I wanted something to jumpstart my creativity,
I'd look at my stressors,
Or a stressful time,
Or a dark time.
A friend who lost someone,
A friend who got lost themselves,
A friend I had to lose,
To be a better person.
If anyone ever reads this,
My friends,
You'll know which one of these people you are,
I mean you no offense.
Offensive words are like a razor,
They can cut,
A razor cuts deep,
But is small and can be hidden.
Words can cut like knives,
A single word,
Words combined to destroy you,
Harder then a nuclear bomb.
At least the bomb is a bomb,
You can't blame it for blowing up,
Even if it kills you,
It's served its purpose.
Well that's fucking depressing,
People's words hurt,
Because we expect those dear to us,
To speak kindly.
When they don't- that purpose,
To be a friend,
A parent,
A brother.
It's blown away,
Unlike the bomb,
Hurting isn't a purpose,
But enough about this...
Melancholia,
Melancholia,
Melancholia,
Stuck in a never-ending cycle.
Good can inspire too,
But more often than not,
Its drowned out by the black tar,
The black tar of existentialism.
This whole poem is black tar,
Would that make a good title?
Hmm
Where was I?
Sex,
Sex is an easy way out for a writer,
Readers love reading it,
Just as much as the writer enjoys writing it.
Or maybe not in other cases,
Oh fuck...
Too tired to continue this,
Tomorrow.
That's what I always say.