Sat on the roof
and looked out
over the edge today.
Don’t have a thing
left to hang on to.
Don’t have anything
left to fight for.
Don’t ever let anyone
tell you it’s easy.
Don’t ever let anyone
tell you it’s fine.
If they do, just know
you’re being lied to.
I’m falling asleep at the wheel
and driving into nothing.
Pass me the pipe.
Pass me the bottle.
Past this failure to launch.
Coming down should be easy;
we’ve done it enough, haven’t we?
I’m not liking this, Jones, as it doesn’t fit what I see in you. I know that’s not fair. And what difference does it make what I see in you? Everyone one of us is going to fall. Every single one of us. What does that matter? What’s that but a blip?
That’s all right, Lewin. Even my poetry is fiction.
Really? Feels so fucking real. I try to inhabit other people too, and write them out. I often figure that when you read something and you can’t tell if it’s about that person or not, it’s done something special. As long as this isn’t about you, I like it.
When I write, I am other people, I think. I think, also, you’re allowed to like it, without liking what it represents. But that’s just me rambling.