I haven’t posted to this blog in a while. I’ve also never made conscious reference of it’s existence in any of my previous posts . I’ve been holding some sort of anonymity to an audience that doesn’t exist. I want to find my voice. That’s why I’m here. I need to write.

So I’m here writing.

Write here.

Right here.

There is no other way.
There never was.
My writing is not bursting, but neither am I.
Maybe I am not in bloom.
Maybe I am not ready.
I have nothing to write.
I am not a writer.
But I am writing.
Why?
It’s all bullshit.
I have no self confidence
I’m tired of talking about myself.
You tell me something.
C’mon tell me something
Friend
There’s a drug dealer on my phone
His contact is saved as “Friend”
He goes to the catholic school
The one I went to.
I told him I would pay him tonight.
I told him I’m not scum.
I’ve yet to pay him tonight.
I might be scum.
I have a parasite in the back of my mind.
I feed it with joints and liquor.
I try to poison it away but it feeds on my rotting flesh.
I want to rot.
I want to rot.
I want to stop.
Writing feels good.
That’s why I do it.
Fuck you Bukowski.
I’ll write whenever I want.
Thanks for the inspiration Bukowski.
You made me write this poem.