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.

write.
write.
write.
the wrist tattoo says.

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

As if cared.

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published.