The decadent poem

How deep do I have to fall
so I hit the bottom so hard
I bounce back up?

How much do I have to fuck around
for the Muse to finally come
without me having to come first?

How much pain should I inflict
and damage should I take
so I can call it a day
and sleep in the end?

I miss drinking
I miss you
I miss some of them, the others, too.

So much fucking up
yet it never feels it’s enough
“the literary research”
“the works.”

All bullshit.

the wrist tattoo says.

And I write.
As if my life
depended on it.

As if cared.

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