Monday, November 21, 2011


I want to be a writer. I want to wake up at ten a.m.,
crank out a few thousand words or more,
go back to bed, get some lunch,
crank out a few more thousand words, go to the bar, smoke,
 meet a girl who makes me forget I want to be a writer.

I want my Sundays not to be filled
with dread and worry as Monday
approaches. Each passing Sunday
hour feels like listening to the
band on the Titanic before it’s
sucked into the cold heartless

I want to be prideful about
what I do with my head held
high and not merely
doggie paddling just to stay

But I have to keep it short
I have to keep it brief
I have to stop,
and work on the work
that keeps me from my work.

It is dreaded Monday
after all and it’s blood lust
is limitless,
and there is no relief for us

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