The writing gods have buried me.
I’m a ghost trapped in crippling indecision.
Which ME should I write?
smart funny edgy human lovable important literary cathartic informative impressive personal controversial
Enter Charles Bukowski, « so you want to be a writer? »
This poem has always fired me up,
like a pep squad before the big game.
I was the quarterback at the keyboard field; my high school brain hot wired on energy drinks, carb loading and anabolics the coach procured to shoot into beautiful blue teenage veins.
Today – you’re an irritant. You’re the PLAGUE.
You’re a bombastic lecture, a tirade of what I’m not and how I can’t and why I shouldn’t.
Fuck you, Bukowski.
Shut yer PIEHOLE.
I can’t corral these
magnetic fields of thought; brilliant and terrible investigations; verbal threats of transferable love; abandoned novels wishing for a record of having been together, flipping…
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