How You Want

Watching Smith didn’t satisfy my anti-absorption. Lack of media outlets final. Cruelty is finances and this cigarette, my arching desires. How you want this, on top, on bottom, the barrel is solid like meat within it. Water is mixed feelings, the processed reality, like my lust. Fetching addiction like a pail comes thirst again. How you want this.


Ok, in this reality, it ain’t much more than existing. For me anyway. I became a heavy weight on my chair. Somehow I never got a career like people want. I strummed my guitar and painted, 2000 poems later I fainted. All for what? My existence.

Looking at how I live it seems I need a shove. University is coming and I worry I will barely survive it. I am not good at functioning under a structure, where you have to do, or fail.

I see myself in this habit. Built from a few years of isolation. It is how I survive, a crutch, how the day spaces out, puff to puff. I can imagine a different life, a dream, or some way I can live better, easier, healthier. Breaking this down it is these three addictions holding me back. They are all legal and minor but they are my crutch, I need a holiday away from them.

Writing is a Worry

Human knows, somehow, that this anxiety, like weighs lifting a head, while pushing down, causes nothing good. In other ways a human would be happy to be free, to think and play, to work and live, in the Sun.

Thinking of women, no one matches, in mirror like love, how could they? Going alone is better, you can’t save her anyway, she is not yours to save. You can take to your grave feeling like you killed her, that she died for you, because of you, she was tortured.

On a happy note you have your addictions. Lucky they can’t last, or a freedom is taken. The money must last, for food, for rent, to set yourself up to just survive, addicts spend.

I think sleep is a love, like arms holding, a togetherness, a lust, lovely pillows, warmth, like a womb. Your mother is a woman that birthed you, but you are no baby, unlike him, a child and his mother, a lover, a mother, you aren’t a baby like him.

So sip and smoke, set the timer, do a joke, do a dance. The romance has ended with your hands, play the cute, play the goal, shoot, and score nothing but air.