level4loser
02/02/05, 09:57 AM
ok this one i kinda sat down and wrote, it wont be revised, but critique it if you wish.
"meet me somewhere in between"
I picked up my copy of the Bukowski book I was reading, and I couldnt help but think that it's sad that nobody reads his books anymore. I mean, the DaVinci code sells like hundreds of books daily, but this, this soft bound book of inspiration goes unnoticed?
So I sit and ponder my mortality on the porch of my dorm hall. I'll light another cigarette, and somewhere the repressed feeling that I am slowly dying and there's nothing I can do to stop it flashes through my mind and in front of my eyes and I slump on the bench. The smoke leaves my mouth and as I slowly exhale no smoke, my uncorrupted breath is chilled in the wind.
The muse in my head is laughing at me.
"You have no juice left. You cant write."
And its true. I can't write anymore. I go through all the stories I've wrote, what once had come so naturally to me now scares the shit out of me. I got hit with it the other day. Ask any artist of any sort what "it" is, and they'll understand. So I went to write it down and I couldnt do it. I couldn't pick up the pen and write anymore. It intimidated me. I was a writer, and I lost my soul. As far as everyone that reads my writings is concerned, I'm dead.
Youre reading the final will and testament of a dead writer.
Just another mediocore wirter of the 21st century. I'll never make it into a book, or a magazine, or anything. I'm dead to the world, and to the literary world, I was never born.
Insert, stage left: a motive. Any sort of motive. To me, the motive is getting high. I get higher and higher and pretend I'm not dissatisfied with my literary death. As I sit alone in my dorm room and allow the smoke to surround my empty head, all I can do is recollect on times when it was full.
Drugs and cigarettes.
Cheap beer and failed expectations.
Bloody noses and rolled up bills.
My complete lack of control of anything is a major sheltering fact. I dont leave anymore. I have notebooks full of short stories I gave up on halfway through, and chose not to throw away.
Aborted fetuses of the birthing process that is art.
Yet I feel non-content in this. Though I wish secretly that my writing never goes anywhere and my soul is saved from corruption that becomes brought on by the failures of good work, I wish you would rape me.
Take something pure and destroy it.
I want you to read my writing, corporate america. I want you to overanalyze them. I want you to take something that was so organic when it flowed through the paper, and I want to to force yourself inside of it. Corrupt it, baby. Open it up, forcefully, and shove as hard as you can. Don't let your advances be denied. Dominate it and make it hurt. Keep exploiting it until all it becomes is a shell, everything inside it that was once living now destroyed by your actions.
And leave it in the dirt.
I cant get any worse anyways. I won't be one of those artists that becomes famous and develops a substance problem. I promise america. I'm already a walking herion addict. Here I am, submitted for your approval, an already wreck of a man that doesnt have much time in him.
Pre-packaged tragedy.
I never pay attention to your heartbreak. I'm already too far gone to be impacted by such trivial things as love, lust, and fame. I could be famous now for all I care. I'd still be sitting in my dorm room, never leaving and doing the substances needed to be a train wreck with legs. I'll still self medicate with razorblades and lines. I'll still show absolutley no concern for my health or you at all.
Pathetic as a school boy crush.
But I'll meet you somewhere. You'll think this is all a game. You'll look into my eyes, looking for some sort of insight as to why I am the way I am. But all you'll see is death.
Because thats all I see.
"meet me somewhere in between"
I picked up my copy of the Bukowski book I was reading, and I couldnt help but think that it's sad that nobody reads his books anymore. I mean, the DaVinci code sells like hundreds of books daily, but this, this soft bound book of inspiration goes unnoticed?
So I sit and ponder my mortality on the porch of my dorm hall. I'll light another cigarette, and somewhere the repressed feeling that I am slowly dying and there's nothing I can do to stop it flashes through my mind and in front of my eyes and I slump on the bench. The smoke leaves my mouth and as I slowly exhale no smoke, my uncorrupted breath is chilled in the wind.
The muse in my head is laughing at me.
"You have no juice left. You cant write."
And its true. I can't write anymore. I go through all the stories I've wrote, what once had come so naturally to me now scares the shit out of me. I got hit with it the other day. Ask any artist of any sort what "it" is, and they'll understand. So I went to write it down and I couldnt do it. I couldn't pick up the pen and write anymore. It intimidated me. I was a writer, and I lost my soul. As far as everyone that reads my writings is concerned, I'm dead.
Youre reading the final will and testament of a dead writer.
Just another mediocore wirter of the 21st century. I'll never make it into a book, or a magazine, or anything. I'm dead to the world, and to the literary world, I was never born.
Insert, stage left: a motive. Any sort of motive. To me, the motive is getting high. I get higher and higher and pretend I'm not dissatisfied with my literary death. As I sit alone in my dorm room and allow the smoke to surround my empty head, all I can do is recollect on times when it was full.
Drugs and cigarettes.
Cheap beer and failed expectations.
Bloody noses and rolled up bills.
My complete lack of control of anything is a major sheltering fact. I dont leave anymore. I have notebooks full of short stories I gave up on halfway through, and chose not to throw away.
Aborted fetuses of the birthing process that is art.
Yet I feel non-content in this. Though I wish secretly that my writing never goes anywhere and my soul is saved from corruption that becomes brought on by the failures of good work, I wish you would rape me.
Take something pure and destroy it.
I want you to read my writing, corporate america. I want you to overanalyze them. I want you to take something that was so organic when it flowed through the paper, and I want to to force yourself inside of it. Corrupt it, baby. Open it up, forcefully, and shove as hard as you can. Don't let your advances be denied. Dominate it and make it hurt. Keep exploiting it until all it becomes is a shell, everything inside it that was once living now destroyed by your actions.
And leave it in the dirt.
I cant get any worse anyways. I won't be one of those artists that becomes famous and develops a substance problem. I promise america. I'm already a walking herion addict. Here I am, submitted for your approval, an already wreck of a man that doesnt have much time in him.
Pre-packaged tragedy.
I never pay attention to your heartbreak. I'm already too far gone to be impacted by such trivial things as love, lust, and fame. I could be famous now for all I care. I'd still be sitting in my dorm room, never leaving and doing the substances needed to be a train wreck with legs. I'll still self medicate with razorblades and lines. I'll still show absolutley no concern for my health or you at all.
Pathetic as a school boy crush.
But I'll meet you somewhere. You'll think this is all a game. You'll look into my eyes, looking for some sort of insight as to why I am the way I am. But all you'll see is death.
Because thats all I see.