Burned

Not enough sleep, too much work. Not a poetic thought in my head or an artistic bone in my body. All I want to do is eat ice cream and drink vodka and go to sleep for a week. I've been doing too many things that should have gotten me killed, too many stupid and dangerous things that I knew while I was doing them "Well, this is a bad fucking idea..." but did them anyway. And got away with it.

Better to be lucky than good, I always say.

I miss poetry. I miss my art. I miss having a functioning brain. I'm tired of meth freaks and stolen property and pre-dawn raids and adrenaline fueled jitter binges.

But this is what I live for. The joy is in the contrast, the movement between these two extremes...


I'm thinking of you all, all the time. My invisible and scattered family.

I pray you are all well.