Champ.

your phone stops ringing and the rain starts in,
you smile at the dead phone now
the dead phone line.
the rain starts in,
and then the people start in
and everything seems like it starts to start in
to try and kill you.
You know the problem with writing?
it seems almost impassible to write about something
other than yourself
and how you feel
or perceive all this shit
it's selfish
writing it is
to be I I I and I about all this.
But in doing that
someone feels that
and they feel more at home
knowing that they're not fighting this
ah
aha
on their own.
sometimes i read other writers
and want to yell out
to throw the book into my toilet
and spew morning shit on it
but then i realize
some people like this
and maybe i don't.
just like some people can sit here
and read this
and some will eventually shit
on these virtual pages.
hey man,
that's cool.
i can dig that kind of dissatisfaction.
writings a bitch
and i mean like true
honest
reality writing.
heartfelt writing.
i haven't had anything good lately
it's all been pretty safe
they're drawing me back from the edge
and comfort
overtakes madness.
i didn't have that much madness to begin with
but at least there was a bit
to enjoy.
how am i suppose to indulge now?
other than indulge myself?
i guess there's the rub.
trying to come up with something beyond
my own bullshit.
but aren't we all?
neh.
i don't think so.
guilty