and then there were words

the only thing worse than too late is never tried and even worse than that is finding three white beard hairs

in my younger days I danced with words for three, four hours at a time. I'd load up on the bottom shelf stuff and bust out 15-20 poems a session before I'd call it quits and let the self-pats on the back commence. I reveled in the lengthy content. I felt like a king. sobriety grays the page these days. today I fiddled with a poem, just one, one poem, an old work, for two straight hours and it's still not right. it no longer bursts from me, it looks odd on the paper, I'm not sure why I wrote it to begin with. I thought I had developed a good system with the drinking and the writing drunk because so much shit poured out and I never questioned why it came, or if the tenses were good, or what the punch line should be. i just wrote shit down for the sake of writing shit down. it was great for everyone involved. I was young and full of life, vodka-fueled fires scorched existence, searing memories to pages, consuming all. the words waited for me back then. now, it seems that, I must wait for them.

“this is how i die, half naked, editing poetry” she choked on her wine because she tried to speak while drinking she hated wine and she drank it anyway she said it smelled like cheese and i got that i got why she liked cider i got her even when i didnt

Ill never be good enough for you You deserve better I wish i could be man enough to leave you And not waste you You are too pure And i am far too used Like wine glasses washed too much With water stains that seem to never wash off They will never be as they were When they came out of the box Maybe Im using the wrong detergent

“this is how i die, half naked, editing poetry” she choked on her wine because she tried to speak while drinking she hated wine and she drank it anyway she said it smelled like cheese and i got that i got why she liked cider i got her even when i didnt

women are love machines, in the way they care, the way they hold us in stillness, the way they make us salads so we can eat healthier and live longer. I'm not saying we need women but damn it sure feels good to be loved unconditionally.

They      say when you get good      enough, your idols      no      longer      impress you. Hemingway will      fade. Fitzgerald      will bore      you with      his      long, skirting      adverbs. Faulkner will ramble. Wilde      will feel cheap, all paradox      and      no weight. Ellis      feels cheap already. But what      I can't      see is the      sharpness of      Buk's      knife ever      feeling      dull. But maybe      it      was      never about      the      sharpness, but the way his knife      always seems to      find your      softest parts.

relish the moments in which you are a small God; relish the power you have over a complete stranger when two people are sitting in the back of an Uber: you resolve who will be bitch seat.

the real crazies never sit in that chair with moist palms hearts beating in their throat blinking uncontrollably and asking timidly “am i going crazy?”

for weeks on end you can't find a single song to vibe to. you hate all your playlists, even the emergency ones. everything is docile, dumb and dull and dead. the gym is agony. coffee doesn't taste. productivity tanks. until a random Monday comes along and you hit save on on four new songs. maybe it's algorithms maybe just depression (lifted).

the pace picks up and the blonde hops around east-europeanly hands on her hips head cocked down spinning around imaginary men and smiling so invitingly at nothing in particular except maybe a memory