last one

I struggle with identity, hustling my friends for fees, like my posts and like my feed and if it’s not enough I flee, I see these flaws, these traits I treat with such distaste and patient greed, every friend who cared for me I push away, I vaccinate, I take a hit you take the bait, I call for absence, call for space, silent contemplation’s mate, but damn I sure do miss those days, writing for that small Crusade, banding up to flip the page it paved the way for so much praise I fell addicted, felt the rage of falling short on certain days and so I left, turned my back and kept the pen inside my chest and that’s the day I started fresh, wrote like fire, read like the wind (like flipping pages) Vonnegut, Pirsig, Hemingway, print, the pages in my fingers felt like grace before a drink, the education every writer needs contrast, contrast, exposure, risk. But I was playing it safe, wasn’t I? Writing for myself was safe, my inner demon wasn’t praise but a lack of feedback leaves you strayed, a desert full of endless words and sure it felt so good to be afraid, to be alone and avoid the race, to anchor down inside your mind and float yourself into a glaze.

But today I went back and saw what I didn’t let myself see and I regret acting so selfishly, delving deep into the wells of grief, self pity is a tunnel and I was driving it at top speeds.

Advertisements

5 thoughts on “last one”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s