goodnight

two drinks down and I feel much better. 

a slow recipe towards death,

a little bit of grass, 

a hazy way to endure. 

not like tough-boy poets who once had horse races, boxing matches, 

bull fights, bar fights, whore houses, planes at war,

winston churchill and all of the presidential assassinations. 

I would like a way out of here, but I'm trapped inside pages.

sometimes I don't want to come here, or I don't "think" of coming here,

but then I'm here anyway.

I'm here to say the little I have to say,

maybe nothing inspiring or spiritual,

bu fragmented pieces of me.

I bleed, ideas like dreams that don't often make sense,

but must find a way to exist.