fuck it

I can't do it anymore, any of it, I'm turning in my

shit in at last, it's what THEY'VE

have been waiting for...

now they can dance in the street

with their sunflower blondes

and their envy can turn gentle:

"yeah, man, I gotta admit, he could write a

bit of good shit back in the day..."

it's been over a week and I haven't written a

decent line, and writing was never difficult

for me before.

I walk across the room, catch a look at

myself in the mirror:

how long did you think

you'd be able to play with words?

everything ends eventually so

stop your whining.

damn, I've never had a problem with writing before.

24 now. what will I do now?

become a paramedic?

who would of ever thought you'd last this long

anyway?

It's the first hot night of summer, one

bottle of wine is now gone as the laptop plays

gloomy blue's music from 1924.

I will say one thing, however, it's nice here now

even with everything else gone wrong, not to be

arguing with a woman tonight.

she's gone off somewhere

and this 

poem which never really got started

is now done and

the second bottle of wine is waiting

for me.

now, there's an art I can still

handle...