the poets childhood

i never really tasted death but addiction
is as close to hell as you ever wanna be
I WOKE UP today stretched out uncovered
in the middle of winters open window
full of overflowing filling spilling
GrAtiTude.
Thanks mom for
molesting me
Thanks dad
for never fucking being there
and because of that
now, when i look at the cloudless night skies
i see things that others do not
think things that others will never cross
write verses from scorching emotions
deeper than the diamond laced blackness

neondusk3142013thursday244pm

One Response to “the poets childhood”

  1. Blue Skye says:

    In the speedy, productive world we live in, writing is so slow, so
    inefficient, almost anachronistic. Perhaps this is the reason it is so
    often construed as a pastime, a hobby, a relatively acceptable way to spend
    one’s leisure hours. On the list of Necessaries, it comes after the laundry
    & grocery-shopping, after paying bills & mowing the lawn & drinking coffee
    with friends. It comes way after anything that could remotely be considered
    a Marketable Skill. Writing’s a bit like reading, it’s not shameful, quite,
    though too much will make you look lazy or self-absorbed or pretentious or
    unfit for the Real World. People will raise one eyebrow when you tell them
    you’re writing: they’ll think you’re misguided or self-important, or both.
    Or they’ll be like that brain surgeon who intends to write one day too, as
    soon as he retires from his real job.

    In spite of that, though, writing–art making–is Work. Indeed, if you
    really care about it, & if you have the peculiar temperament & talent that
    make you a decent conduit for the artistic process, it’s Very Hard Work.
    Even when it’s fun, when the words are rolling out, when the story is
    unwinding with that peculiar energy that you don’t find in any other
    activity, even then it’s Very Hard Work. It’s hard because it demands that
    you respect its rhythms, its drives. It’s hard because it doesn’t care a
    whit about you, about what else you should be doing, about your family or
    neighborhood, about your vision of yourself. It exposes you to public
    scrutiny, even if that public is your family, or maybe especially then. It
    makes you vulnerable like nothing else. It inhabits you, it takes you over.

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