Starved from enlightening bugs that do not glow in my tutelage, I read Kant and realise my own lack of intellectualism. If I remain trapped in the low lives I will be Bukowski and may as well drink and cheer at a dead baby joke like everyone else. It is not that I hate them, I don’t hate anyone, it is just I haven’t had a worthwhile conversation in so long I could implode. It is as if somehow I missed my chance to be around people who have a greater thought to life than a beer bottle.
So here I am in consideration. A poet. It is just a hat you put on when writing a poem. Naturally if to be cemented it may take a plaque. For who is human until proven, loving until a tear. So it is cold in life even in Summer, with no one near that resembles the possession of a laugh that isn’t malicious. I read Duhammel to a class of drunks and even they complain. How is it possible that Duhammel signifies my mental health? How is she causing me to be insane?
Of course I should get off here, even this chair. I almost paid for a desk in a far away land, an office, though needed no, of course not. The reality that holding hands with bloated capitalists is just a fact of life. The lower class, the middle, the upper, all same, just capitalists, they just revolve around the self. I sat in a group of three and it was not much better. Everyone says they were triggered. You cannot even communicate anymore.