Friday, August 21, 2009

Poetry dancing with Lucky Strikes, this air is my own; coffee on the way.

Sometimes affirmation comes from knowing
that you needed to hear a song
at a certain place
at a certain time.
You needed to cry
for its beauty
its familiarity.
In that moment,
there is no question;
you were meant to be.

Owning a bed was great,
constantly being kicked out of it.
I never wanted a full nights rest.
Episodes of Cops,
Bottles of wine;
A good book of Noir,
Police knocking on the neighbor's door.
More enjoyable than any dream.
Couches are more my speed
I can hear her snoring,
in my bed.

Am I a writer?
Romance floats around the persona,
agony is the reality.
I'm in agony,
roasting from within;
does that make me a writer?
I suppose it's more important
why the agony exists.
Is the reason good enough?
fuck em'
I'm a writer,
and it's a good burn.

I'm in a good place tonight, the air is cool, and my energy is not driven by coffee but the desire to do something great. Many people tell me that both the agony and the joy of writing lies in the long summer nights of crumpled papers and ink on fingers, tonight I agree. I feel as if I don't need to think twice, it's going to be alright. The waves of my mind will carry me to a soft beach, and the words will present themselves along the way.

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