I want to write without the urge to show it to anybody,
in deepest of my flesh i suffer from vanity,
i seek validation from people,
whose existence is tied by thread of fiction in reality.
"you have such depth of emotions" they say,
do i,
the things i want to write about,
i am afraid to talk about.
can i write about a 28 year old ,
falling in love with someone 13 years younger,
can i write about the struggle of an old lady clinging on to life,
when she just afraid by the thought of death,
and a guy ready to dance with death,
at mearly nineteen,
numbers are definition of us,
marks, grades or just how old are we.
can i talk about the prositute,
who loves everyman she is with,
or the women who fucked guys without a ounce of love for them.
can i write about complexity of fifteen years old,
or immaturity of a forty year old.
how chivalry comes to some,
when they defend their mothers,
against their Fathers,
or Fathers flirting with their daughters friends.
can i write about how some and all women are crackheads,
how much i loathe them,
can i write how fascinating i find them,
enough to love them for their bodies.
and in between glances be jealous of their intellect.
can i write the empty wishkey reminds me of my faults,
guilt resides over ability to survive,
i am not a great writer,
because i cannot zoom out on life.
neither could you.
where are we?
i slowly turning into,
rude motherfucker once i hate,
hating life,
enough to drive slow,
drown into something that eludes the mind.
but who cares,
my bottle of whiskey is halfway down,
now i don't want to hide anymore,
behind praises and criticism,
elegant phrases and healthy cynicism.
in this hiding from myself
i always look into the abyss,
just to covet in fear,
but today i look back into my demon's eyes,
and say bring it on.
i have emptied my glass of whiskey,
i don't care even if i die.
